


The Source

by alnora



Series: Fragments [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alnora/pseuds/alnora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Direct sequel to Sound Life.  They're not portals to different worlds.  They're the same as ours, altered only by decisions.  Yes, no.  Do, do not.  Mutliple versions of yourself doing what you wish you did or did not do.  The demons know this as they wage war with one another. To do things over, to conqure other worlds and ensure this one.  A nightmare revisited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 00

“Would you like us to accompany you?”

 

What kind of bloody question was that? To his ears, that sounded positively offensive. Him, needing protection – from what exactly? What should he, the proclaimed king of hell, need to fear while scouting in the middle of nowhere's nowhere? The most dangerous thing likely to occur there would be stubbing your toe on a tree's root and scuffing your recently “purchased” oxfords. Well, that would be a shame, now that he considered it. Even so, he couldn't chastise the boy for his alacrity; having his busy little minions sharpen their tongues day by day, some unerring loyalty was resolve-affirming, and further delayed him from playing fetch with his puppy, with their various limbs as sticks.

 

A gentlemanly “No” was the reply to the lad (a general summary) and off Crowley went to... wherever here is, not that it's of any importance. The why, rather, that's the juicy bit, and he was looking right at it, which is, truthfully, not as impressive as he pictured it in his head. Like most headaches in life, he blamed the media for his unrealistic expectations – big budgets, non-reality based, time constraints skewing the real world results. Where's the drama? No dark swirling vortex with an electrical charge crackling inside? Hell, no sound at all? And better still, where is the film's hero? More like three festering boils on his backside. Not a moose, squirrel or blackbird in sight meaning he is, more or less, a step ahead of the dynamic trio, always on the lookout to reprimand him in their loudest big boy voices to quit being so naughty, and show off their newest antique toy truly believing in their hearts he gave a sweet damn. That would be cute if they weren't working for the wrong side.

 

What a world it would be: the tall one being the monster he was so literally born to be, the eldest one returning to the role that suits him far better than the savior; and the idiosyncratic feathered one, melting away his useless wings and be Crowley's partner once again. Their first date ended in failure, but deep in that human heart of his lies the ruthlessness that would have most demons wetting their panties. The angel, he's part of the package now, isn't he? Buy one Dean, get one Castiel free? That thought was always good for a chuckle on those dreary, rainy days. What do you give to a person with an already poisonous relationship to his family? Why, what else but another deadly relationship written in blood! Idiotic human, how are they able to tie their shoes let alone live as long as they do? And why do these men insist with their very own lives to continue protecting them?

 

No, no, something like that could never happen again, right? The righteous ones, now pious in their purpose, would never falter again; those dark days have long since passed. But just who exactly set such a thought into stone? Because they said so? Oh, love, the world doesn't work that way. A forceful nudge here, a shove off the cliff there and Dean's back to counting off severed fingers to help him fall asleep. Such fancies take time, time Crowley had, but why sit around waiting on someone else when you could be sitting on the shores of the Maldives with a margarita in hand being waited _on_? The cat eventually tires of the mouse and calls it a day.

 

The fun need not end their, either. Really, why limit yourself to a gaggle of idiots? Crowley thought of himself as far more creative than that, his ambition a little more grander and so on, you get the picture. The world in which he lived could be his for the taking – if he knows where to look. Who knows, there may be other native lands out there to be liberated by his empyrean conquest. To have his name cross the lips of angels, demons and humans from any time that has existed or will? It could sure make a fellow all tingly.

 

Two very confused and enigmatic  _things_ parading in borrowed flesh made a bit of a mess here on Earth and, to be quite frank, left everyone else just as confused in their wake: the meek became boisterous, the violent insignificant; the loyal evaporating into treasonous little ants. The volumes of blood that had to be scrubbed from floors and clothing? An absolute nightmare. But those are the rules you agree to abide by when one becomes a henchmen: you step out of line and the boss is contractually obligated to step on your skull. Dirty and arduous labor that, but someone has to do it. The sun seemed to be coming up on those dark and red days, the ants returning to their regular temperaments and stations again, protecting their qu– king. King.

 

So the  _things_ left and the cup of normalcy was 98% full, although not all was well in the state of Denmark, and he was looking at it. Bland, unfit for film. Not even worth taking a photo of.

 

Well then, first on his mental checklist was if death or bodily harm would befall him or anyone else–but mostly him–if they came into contact with the disappointing temporal distortion. A twig or stick... a deer... He was certainly kicking himself for coming alone. A simple shove of one of their arms into the possible meat grinder and he'd know for sure. This, of course, was only the first item on the list; if decapitation was avoided, part two would be returning safely back to the origin point, meaning next to him with details of his or her glorious journey to... where doesn't exactly matter right now, but coming back to him does.

 

Sacrifice one half of his cell phone? No, too many contacts would be lost, as well as some very, _very_ personal photos.

 

“Very well then, looks like someone will end up with the short straw.” Nothing like a lottery to decide who looses a leg.

 

Hmm... This is odd. The sensation of being observed engulfed him like smoke, and the smell that came with it reminded him of it too. More than that, it was familiar, one he could not forget despite numerous shooting star wishes. An odor he wish would have stayed where it belonged. Flowers being set ablaze. Ash. Black as tar and just as thick. And with a blink, no trace was left in the air. Unfortunately, the eyes remained.

 

“And what do I owe this most auspicious encounter?” Crowley failed purposely at containing a sigh and turned to greet his guests.

 

A deep voice returned the sentiment. “Nothing is destroyed going in. What happens on the other side still remains unclear.”

 

“Never thought I would see the day when your kind would divulge any information with the likes of me. Must be my birthday.” He took a moment to take in the man in front of him, and his vessel's choice in apparel. “Mowing the family lawn, were we?”

 

Caim smirked like he expected Crowley to say something something along those lines, dark eyes twinkling. “Regarding one's outer appearance as critical... That's one of the countless differences between us. It bleeds of humanity, even if you are demon. And the ruler of all demons at that.” His tone turned derisive; a choked laugh came from behind him. “When was that agreed upon by the entirety of Hell, exactly?”

 

“When your bestie failed to live up to his word,” Crowley replied quickly, almost sounding bored. Which he was. Best to get on with it instead of playing whatever game Caim was tossing about in his head. “Since you seem to be in an uncharacteristically generous mood, may I ask why you are here and why that rabid mongrel is at your heels?”

 

The restless boy behind Caim did the only thing he could do in rebuttal, which was to search his vessel's pocket for its wallet and throw it at Crowley. The brown leather bounced limply off his chest and onto the soft soil. He chortled again, unable to decide how loud it should be; the other two demons, for the first time in history, both agreed to ignore what had just taken place.

 

“The abridged answer to your questions is that we wanted both parties to acknowledge the others' curiosity in what's before us, that we assuredly have dramatically separate goals in mind. As for this one,” he briefly turned his head to the pacing demon behind him, “we're attempting to retrieve a toy he lost the last time we were on the surface. The location which he conveniently _forgot_.” The scathing remark was in turn ignored by its intended target.

 

“What do you expect to happen when you give an important piece of equipment to an infant? Lost under the couch, down the toilet... Jesus will be resurrected before you find that again.”

 

The odor of ash and burning flora blew past him in a thick gust, heavy and moist, as the small snarling demon began to show part of his true self. His shadow began to grow along the ground, abnormally black – too black, losing bit by bit its human shape, and charged at Crowley. Caim's raised hand was all that was needed to stop him, the freight train crashing into an object that could not be moved by any force. He pushed at it once with his shoulder before giving up, still snarling, eyes remaining as black as his shadow. At least the idiot is smart enough to know when he's lost.

 

“This is your warning, usurper.” If the fellow wasn't such a prick, that commanding voice would certainly catch his attention, maybe heed a word or two; but because he was –and always has been– rude, the old demon was nothing more than a nuisance. “Continue on this path and I promise you we will eradicate those ignorant enough to follow you, and... well. I don't want to ruin the surprise just yet.” The stupid one tittered behind him.

 

“Now, now, don't lead me to believe I have a voice in this matter. I curtsy to you or I don't, but either way I'll have a rat-sized cage with my name on a plaque right above it.” Sliding his hands into his coat, Crowley stepped closer to the two, feeling as though he had nothing to lose. “So, how about I tell you to piss off, take my chances, and do what I've wanted to do to your kind for centuries?”

 

“Your risk is too big.”

 

“The loftier the gamble, the richer the reward. That reward, well, she's just too big to pass up. And when did you begin to care for my well-being? Getting sweet on ol' Mr. Crowley?” He couldn't help himself but to smirk at the artificial candy coating of his own voice. When did any of them show the remotest amount of interest in underlings like he once was? That sort of consideration wasn't in a demon's repertoire of disposable emotes. So to temporarily placate their significant duchies in Hell must be signal to a bad moon about to make itself known, which might be entertaining enough to stick around for.

 

Caim, meanwhile, implacable still after centuries of reluctantly being his acquaintance, remained unperturbed in front of him, heart-breakingly unconcerned with having Crowley's love. Oh well, bullocks to him; guy doesn't know what he's missing out on. The slow one was... well, casually making his way behind Crowley, still maintaining a cautious distance from him, to more than likely inspect the distortion for himself.

 

“You can say we've been buddies for a long time, yeah? We bump into each other on our way to homeroom, you say 'Hey,' I say 'Hey,' and that's that. Compared to the others, you stuck out like a stubborn infection, all red and throbbing, and not that pleasant kind of red and throbbing either.” An elephant-like inhale interrupted him, derailing his train of though. Suppression. Non-violence. Don't kill him yet; it's not worth it. Crowley closed his eyes and held his breath. At five seconds it was clear to talk once more. “This whole stoic, chivalrous part you play reminds me so much of our feathered friends to the north. Don't you find that amusing, because to me that's a joke that keeps me in stitches for years.”

 

Finally, a flinch. A twitch of the eye, shoulder raised doing a little suppression of his own. Yes, of course an angel barb would be one if not the only thing a rise out of this lump of a creature. Both a blessing and a curse to demons and angels alike is their eternal memory – that is, to say, most demons and angels. The sniffly bugger behind him was... _something_ else. Some blemishes, no matter how much you attempt to beautify them with loyalty and good deeds, can never be scrubbed away.

 

“Grade school taunts. Yes. I could mention just how human that is to bring up, but since you _aren't_ human anymore, what's the point exactly? Could your cocky attitude be, perhaps, a remnant of your past?”

 

An assured tug at the corner of his lips and a point well taken, one Crowley embarrassingly walked into. How could you bring up undignified checkered pasts and ignore that his was just as demeaning? His climb to the top was hampered by the representative weights of an undignified crossroads wish leading to the just as undignified position of crossroads demon. A true blue pauper to prince; a story he should sell the rights to. The Academy just loves “based on a true story” dramas; this one assuredly more engaging than young, depressed American football players. A point to the visiting team.

 

“Your confidence will kill you, Crowley. We gave you a chance to stand aside as we begin to engage in–“

 

“Chance?” the demon snorted indignantly. “What bloody chance? You and your clan made your decision about what to do with me long before any of you stepped back on solid ground. I find it insulting you think of this as giving me an opportunity to scurry away with my tail tucked between my legs, not even a slap on the wrist for my traitorous ways. Oh, my fate's been sealed and delivered, love.”

 

So, where does this leave Crowley? Kill him now or kill him later? While it would make whatever plans they have easier if they removed the roadblock ahead of them, he knew their style. The more substantial problems were solved in groups, not necessarily because they needed the extra manpower but that they liked witnesses. Family bonds, something or other, blah blah. Not only that, but people from his camp to also observe as proof and example, like how the severed heads of dukes and kings were impaled on spikes and placed in the town square or adorning their own castle in the delightfully turbulent days of medieval Europe. No, his death would be seen by angels and demons as a new regime ascended. Nothing to fear yet, yeah? Not to say he was, because if he was ever forced into battle (and wouldn't you know it, he is) with his wish list of enemies and people who generally were as welcomed as stepping on dog feces, Crowley is glad it would be these shining examples of favoritism.

 

The demon in his backyard best raised his hand defensively. “We just wanted to know where you stand, Crowley.”

 

“Like I have much of a choice,” he muttered as he looked over his shoulder. The kid was shoulder-deep into the distortion, wiggling his arm about and looking ludicrously determined as if he was going to find something. Who knows? He just might. Or he could lose something. Both outcomes were most welcomed. “Go a little deeper and you'll find the prostate in no time.” His reply was only an acknowledging grunt.

 

“Time to go, Bel,” Caim's voice beckoned him, not like you would with a pet much to Crowley's surprise. A calm insistence. “We have more important matters.” With a final blind grope raised on his toes, he casually relented, walking past Crowley... before disappearing and doubling back to kick him in the shins. As the assaulted demon cursed and clawed out for the little shit, wanted to pop his head with only his hands, he appeared in his spot behind Caim once again While his keeper did not appear to be pleased, he didn't look all that offended either.

 

“Keep that bastard on a leash, would you!” Oh hell, how degrading... Alright, _that_ one dies first, top of the damn list.

 

“There's only one thing in this world that controls any of us. I'm sure you remember that.” A clandestine nod of his head and Caim was off to continue his search for who-the-hell-knows-and-who-the-hell-cares with his rabid cerberus. He was kicked. _He was kicked_. Like a child in the schoolyard. Wasn't _he_ supposed to do the kicking?

 

At least he was alone now to irritably fume in comfort. Which he did, muttering once or twice under his breath and smoothing out his suit, not that it wasn't wrinkled in any way. More tainted than wrinkled, really.

 

“I do scrutinize my looks a bit obsessively...”

 

This distractions had left – temporarily. While they did not offer anything resembling peace between their two parties, Crowley knew for certain that he had opposition at all. Better still was knowing the enemy personally. But should it be such a revelation that those ones would be the rival team? Not at all. Crowley's action were heretical; judgment was only a day away when he claimed the crown from the imprisoned Lucifer.

 

Or at least it should have been. Why such a long delay? Granted time moved sluggishly in the furnace, but the reaction to Satan being locked away in Alcatraz should have been instantaneous. It had been years. Why all the interest in him now? No, there was more to them showing up than just him being eliminated from the scene. Whatever the “plan” was, he was only a part of it, one step to achieving what they truly desired.

 

But Crowley had plans of his own, damn good ones too. That would not change – just altered. His were too tasty to abandon because a few upperclassmen ganged up on him on the playground. Unforeseen variables had entered the picture, and since restarting was not an option, a little ingenuity and tweaking would be needed to accommodate such unwanted outside forces. Well, they would have been a problem eventually, if not now than sometime later. And that's just dandy with him. What do you do with pesky vermin? Suffocate them until their black eyes pop out of their skulls. No matter how big their talk may be (and it will be), they are demons and easily disposed of. The world would be better for it.

 

Now, about this damn vortexy thing. Which fortunate soul would be first to hop down the rabbit hole?


	2. 001

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV changed up a little bit. It's not a continuity lapse.

“ _...is...t...”_

A grunt muted by pillow.

“ _How...rec...ze...”_

“You're talkin' in your sleep, Cas. Knock it off.” He wriggled around hoping that his backside would bump into the noisy angel and rouse him enough break unconsciousness' hold. When empty space was the only thing to be bumped, two bleary eyes were opened to observe with another of the five senses that he was, in fact, not going out of his mind.

No ass in the bed.

Dean looked up.

No ass hovering around the bed.

Propping himself up on his elbow, Dean resigned to himself that, yeah, he's crazy and it's way too early in the morning to come to such realization.

But he knew what he heard: Cas in the room _with him_ , and his words were a little fuzzy because Dean was half-awake. Makes sense. That did little to explain the complete lack of Cas in any nook and cranny here. A voice without an owner. Maybe his voice was carried through the ventilation. Maybe not because something like that has never shittin' happened before.

A hand grouped to the normally occupied space next to him. No warmth to speak of.

Alright then, time to get up. He was afraid that if he dwelled on the troubling thought any longer a call to the hospital and a strait jacket would be in his near future, probably before breakfast. Not that it's ever too early for a little crazy when you're a Winchester.

* * *

 

After putting on a pair of sweatpants and socks, Dean shuffled out of his room with Cas's radio static voice buzzing like some of the flies he smashed yesterday. His feet led him to either find the angel or find food, but eventually willed himself toward the kitchen. Didn't want to be clingy as well as nuts. Just a dream, remember? Cas has been coming into your dreams lately so it makes sense his voice would linger before he awoke.

He couldn't help but grin. Yeah, they've been pretty great since he allowed Cas back into them, finally feeling comfortable and confident enough after the nightmares and other distressing visions to be... vulnerable again. That wound was on its way to being 100% closed. The first couple of nights were spotty and Cas would end up being ejected, if ejected was even a proper term to use for consciously forcing someone out of a dream you shared. Whatever the word, Cas was out and he'd be left alone to stew in chaotic thoughts and memories. But they were always temporary, and the next night he'd invite Cas back in and

_Hear his voice in my head when I'm wide awake._

Before jumping to conclusions, he thought, asking Cas himself, wherever that little vagabond is roaming, was an actual starting place and not simply paranoid delusion cutting in line like it usually does. This is more in his area of expertise.

Rounding his way to the kitchen Dean ran into Sam, who started his day well ahead him (as usual, the freak). Wearing shorts and with earbuds planted in his ears, a jog -or gallop- in the great outdoors was his next destination. (Which is why he's a freak. Only weirdo sociopaths engage in any sort of exercise at 7 in the morning. Only foul weather stopped him, which brought his brother back one step closer to the side of an average Joe.) In the direction he was heading in, he was all set to leave.

“Mornin'.” Sam gave Dean a quick once over with his eyes. “Something wrong?”

“Guy wakes up a little early in the morning and he has to be sick?”

“Considering your morning starts at 1 PM,” he pointed out, “I'd say yeah, something has to be wrong.”

That's not true. Mostly not. Cas wakes him up some time before that...

“No, nothing's wrong,” Dean responded back childishly. “Just couldn't get back to sleep.” He yawned. “Don't you have to be galloping of to somewhere right now?”

Sam bit his lips to stop himself from smiling. “I'm not a fucking horse, you jerk. I'm not!” he laughed out when he saw Dean about to counter the equine denial.

“You keep actin' like being called a horse is such an awful thing. Most guys would take that as a compliment.” Sleepy or not, anytime was a good time to be slimy. Seeing his younger brother turn up his nose in disgust was the definitive sign that his word was the last.

Continuing past Dean, Sam parted with “Be back soon” with a quieter “Gross” at the end.

It was here Dean's mind had to quickly contemplate the pros and cons of asking Sam where Cas was because, he finally admitted to himself, he was clingy, he was _really_ fucking clingy and crazy and needed instantaneous peace of mind; he could go look for himself and would likely have to search the bunker anyway, but a “Yeah, I just saw him” would make for a less vigorous search. Dean hoped that Sam would keep quiet about the rise in possessiveness – something Sam himself should be used to. Being a newborn was what he equated it to. It certainly was new to Dean.

He fought with himself as Sam reached the turn, blurting out, “You seen Cas?”

“Huh? Yeah.” The earbuds connected to his phone, which he pulled out from his short's pocket. “Probably... fifteen minutes ago. It's been so quiet up here, he's probably downstairs. Don't know what Cas would want down there, though.”

Who knows why he does 90% of the things he does.

* * *

 

Below deck of the bunker stayed relatively cool and clammy no matter the season, it being further in the ground than most basements. As does topside, but that is much more comfortable: less humid, less early Fall in the South. For the space's low traffic and activity, it could be the Amazon or the Antarctic. Temporary discomfort and the complaints due to it were viewed as shallow to Sam and Dean, having dealt with much worse on a longer scale of time. In Castiel's case, they were no different than an oxygen dependency; problems that did not affect him whatsoever. Some days this summer felt as if you were drowning in the air rather than breathing it in, and then there's Cas wearing two types of coats. Dean wasn't sure if being an angel was a fair trade-off for that kind of temperature control, but he had to admit it was pretty damn handy. Definitely could have used it when he was younger: stranded in the woods for days during any of the seasons, alone.

The general misuse of the basement/storage room coupled with that gave it a further air of antiquity. Closely aligned metal shelves covered in dust as well as the objects upon them – idols, wards, talismans, manila folders and books bound in questionable materials filled with diagrams and languages he could not understand, many of which died off thousands of years ago. Whatever that could not be placed upstairs without overflowing onto the floor was brought down here in all of its chaotic glory. Well, with several potential labels it is pretty difficult to organize them. If it was good enough for the nerds that ran this place, it was good enough for the people who inherited the key.

It was between these shelves and gray walls that Dean finally found Cas, who looked as if he left bed in a little bit of a rush, leaving the pants and shirts in the dresser and throwing on Dean's robe instead, a cold he couldn't feel coming from the floor on his bare feet. He was staring stone-faced at Dean, but not exactly. Almost peering through him, or at the very least behind him.

“Hey, uh...” He glanced behind himself just to assure himself that some Abbott and Costello-type mummy wasn't comically chasing him. “Am I interrupting you?”

Leaning to the side as if something tall was blocking his view, Cas answered that question with a question of his own. “You can't see it?”

Dean mimicked Cas uncertainly. “No?”

The reply seemed to confirm a suspicion. “That's what I thought at first, too,” he mumbled, to himself more than Dean. Dean didn't understand the particulars of what was happening right now anyway. “Stand next to me. But don't walk forward!” Behind him Dean imagined the dust on the shelves being shaken from Cas's warning yell, tiny plumes puffing into the air. A voice like that doesn't carry in a small room like this.

Waving his hand to his side, Cas regained control over his voice. “Use the, um, circumference.”

Dean did as he was told, staying as close to the walls as possible, all the while the angel's eyes darted from him to the empty air, making sure that he didn't step over some imaginary boundary. With such a steady focus there was no chance he was looking at nothing, something Cas did have a propensity to do.

Nudging close to Cas, shoulder-to-shoulder, Dean squinted and resigned. “Nope. Can't see a thing. I don't doubt ya when you say there is,” he tried to console the angel when a small scowl darkened his face, “but maybe it's an angel thing where mortals can't–” An arm snaked its way around his shoulder and fingertips pressed into his cheek, forcing Dean's head to tilt sideways. Words of protest were more noises than words at being prodded – not a fun kind of prodding either, even though they _were_ alone right now.

There. In the very corner of his eye. Right there. What was there? Could it have been some residual sleep that needed to be wiped away? A small gossamer blur, floating but stationary. He squeezed his eyes several times to be sure... And it was gone.

“You moved your head.”

“Huh?”

Cas sighed because, really, what was so difficult about that forthright statement? He loved the human dearly ( _too much so_ ), but some of the time he seemed so... unaware, like he spoke in riddles. Grasping Dean's other shoulder, he guided Dean in front of him. And as he moved, so did it, like a sliding-glass door; one moment having a clear and unobstructed view to a clear yet distorting sheen.

“It's like a da– you can stop poking my cheek now.” Cas looked at his hands accusingly, wondering why one was still at Dean's face. Enjoying their brief moment of pushing him around? Not pushing – gently guiding him in the right direction. The boys would be walking in circles without a little celestial help sometimes. Dropping his hands to his side, Cas smiled inwardly. It wasn't just his power or blood they needed, but his insight and knowledge, and in the case of Dean, something even more.

“It's like a heat mirage,” Dean continued. He looked around the room ostensibly. “Far as I can see, this place is the opposite of sunny and warm. So?”

Dean's face inferred that Cas, bastion of insight and knowledge, should have an explanation or at the very least a hint for such a disturbance. “Well, 'so' is what I'm asking myself. It does seem similar to the portal you and Benny opened in Purgatory in that it is...” Cas searched his mind for a better description and found no results. “...Shaped like it.”

“No strobe lights, no hurricane wind blowing us over,” Dean agreed, scanning the shelves for a certain something. Unsure of his selection -a dark red satin pouch with Nordic runes stitched onto it that felt in his hands to be empty- he decided on something more disposable.

Cas watched on as Dean took a sock off of his foot, balled it up and tossed it through the opaque illusion before them. It passed through silently before bouncing off the door and delicately landing on the floor. Didn't disappear, was not vaporized or set ablaze; didn't pass through and come out on the other side as a cosmic horror.

“Well, if it is... _was_ some type of teleportation, time-and-space incinerator thing, it's definitely inactive now.” The pull of Castiel's penetrating gaze on him was hard to ignore. “I always think I did something wrong when you look at me like that. But because I'm such a quick study,” his tone growing cocky, “I found out that, when you start giving me the eye, I just slowly start making my way up to you, grab hold of your waist...” That part always weakened Cas, the touch causing him to flush and thaw enough for his will to wave the white flag and meet Dean's lips that were so close by. Castiel was also quick to learn that Dean's own resolve was forged of steel when it came to open-mouth kisses in the morning. He insisted that morning breath meant very little to him, but Dean insisted it was “bedside courtesy.” Fingers grazing his face or chest or thighs, something like he did now, did well to fill the gap.

“You were going to pout your lip and lecture me on the dangers of throwing clothing at potentially unstable floating...” He motioned to the middle of the room. “...Whatever that thing is, set it off like a bomb or something. But you're still so genuinely surprised when I initiate contact that you blush like you just did and stumble over your feet.” Though Dean pointed out the obvious for Cas, having a little fun at his expense, he couldn't help relating to his own words. Cas reacted to him, he reacted in turn to Cas; the angel who had little to no verbal filter or inhibition would stop speaking and forget momentarily what he was speaking of, only because Dean stood a tiny bit closer. Looked only at him in a room full of people, young and beautiful and, Castiel confided, more polite. Kisses stolen with Sam nearby, risking a day's worth of cooing and giggles. He would be mystified, probably thinking “ _Does he really care for me this much?_ ”

_Yeah, guess I do._

“Just like you are right now,” Dean said coyly against Cas's lips. The hands that he never wanted to lift from his body did so giving him the freedom to move once again, which still was not as appealing as Dean holding him steady. Truly amazing how something so... absolutely simple could be desired so strongly. How a brush of the human's skin on his could bring upon such a depth of emotion. It was little wonder how angels before him consorted with them; a feeling that not be obtained with their own kind, risking their very grace to feel alive.

And then Dean walked through the potentially unstable floating thing.

* * *

 

“He was _pissed_ ,” Dean snorted into his hand, holding a bottle close to his lips. “I thought he was gonna set me ablaze with his fury. My foot was cold, and the shortest route is always straight – which meant walking through something that could atomize me,” he belligerently acknowledged.

“You gotta admit he had the right reaction. Something simple like a fabric could have went clean through, but humans are more complex.”

“Like bizarro _Terminator_. The clothes gets sent to the future, human is torn apart from the inside out, and Sarah Connor has a new sweater but is too dead to appreciate it.”

“You're talking about the first film, right?” Sam asked.

“'Course I am. Reese was the only human to be sent to the future or to the past, so he's toast. The machines aren't really alive so they'd make the trip. Why the hell are we talking about this?” Either because his bottle was empty or wondering just how he tried to rationalize fictional time travel, or both, Dean frowned.

“Because you're the one who brought it up!” Sam couldn't help but chuckle. Of course his brother would admit to liking men before admitting to being just as big a nerd as himself. A living, breathing encyclopedia of electronic and automotive configuration and customization, so knowledgeable in movie, TV and music trivia that historians would reconsider their occupation... And Sam was still the nerd in this little outfit they ran. Maybe it was for the best that Dean believed that to be true; it was an insignificant boast in a life that took too much away to be proud of.

“Yeah, well...” He drew a line in the air with his hand. “I'll be having no more of it. I won't let you let me yap on about robots and how the end of the world happens in 1997. Probably had something to do with Hanson and not computers.” The lightbulb of a breakthrough glowed in Dean's eyes, like he had discovered fire or a cure for cancer. Sam was forced to turn away because it was just too damn much. Dean definitely was not drunk, but the path toward it was coming to an end.

At the table behind Dean, a group of four men ended a round of poker, some with cries of yet another defeat and accusing the winner -several times over- of cheating, though in a tone that indicated no retaliation. The more subdued winner graciously accepted his earnings. The bar at this time of night was close to last call so most of the patrons had already made their way home, or to someone else's home, leaving those gentlemen, Dean and Sam, and a male and female sitting at the counter who were most likely friends of the bartender. A genial atmosphere. They could have left anytime they wanted to. Sam, though, had reason to stick around. Something he had to see with his own eyes, not hear from the dubious mouth of his brother.

Attempting to distract Dean from his own distractions, Sam continued. “How did he know it was there? To look in the right spot, knowing it was in the basement. We go down there everyday and didn't suspect a thing. Hell, we probably walked _through_ it.”

Dean focused back on Sam, like he remembered he was still there. “I don't even think Cas knows. All he told me was that he woke up with 'You must go downstairs' in his head. Fortunately for you he had the decency to toss on a robe. He has the tendency to sleep naked when we're home, so I'm gonna say you used up your luck for the month.”

A bratty smile like that makes a guy wish he could pinch those lips closed and rip them off.

“You woulda seen things, Sammy. Things you can't unsee.”

Sam grabbed a used napkin, balled it up, and threw it at Dean's face, who regrettably knocked it away with the poise of an oxygen-starved fish. “Stop saying weird shit about my friend!”

He shrugged. “Just looking out for you. What big brothers do.”

The motivation was incredibly doubtful though Sam ceded to it anyway. After his daily ritualistic teasing at the expense of Dean and Cas, a retribution that no cold shower could remedy was to be the proper reaction. Not that he accepted it.

Sam lowered his eyes. Why does Cas sleep naked? Why does Cas sleep at _all_?

Two of the men folded, sounding like they were done playing for the night. Dean beamed brighter than any star. “He's doing good, isn't he?” he whispered conspiratorially. “Right? He's good. Damn good.”

“You only say that 'cause you taught him.”

“Well, yeah, that's certainly a part of it.”

When Sam asked how this -Cas playing for money- came up, he sincerely meant it. He wasn't sure if it was a case of monkey see, monkey do, he had a genuine interest in the game, or some other motive entirely. After draining his bottle completely Dean told him about a month ago, when his temperament was still fluctuating almost violently, Cas said to him with honesty that since he was now traveling with the brothers he wanted to earn his keep and not feel like a burden to them. Dean, of course, thought that was pretty damn dumb. Angels are more of an emotional drain than a financial one – they don't need to eat or drink, motel rooms are free, and he can repair his clothing. But Cas was wearing more than a suit and tie now, having an inexpensive wardrobe but a wardrobe all the same; and he was still living with them. Even kids do chores for their parents.

The simplest but still risky way for a hunter to earn cash was gambling (and to a lesser extent hustling, because you were more likely to lose an eye that way). There were other means like “misappropriated” credit cards and some old fashion pawning, but those methods left trails. Cas had nothing to pawn as it was, nor was he too hot on the idea of stealing. (“We only steal from people who deserve it, right Sam? We're like Robin Hood, except that you're Little John.”) So poker it was.

“His strength is his face, no question. Well, it was even when we first started, but he was very.... forthcoming with his hands,” Dean strained. “Just spitting it out whenever he had the chance. He's a quick learner, I'll give him that. Learning to keep his mouth shut?” He shook his head shamefully.

Tonight was Cas's third time playing with a public audience and Sam's first seeing him. He passed up the other opportunities because he wanted the two to have more time alone while being out. Dean denied it, but Sam felt like a third wheel sometimes. He wasn't bitter about it, not an ounce: they _should_ have their nights. Unfortunately, they could not be open about their relationship, which probably wasn't an issue with Dean to begin with. His brother never was very outward with his affection, no holding and brief kisses. To be close to one another, without any interference from Sam, was enough for now. But when the question was asked to him tonight, he couldn't help himself. Sam had to see for himself just how skilled Cas was, and if Dean could teach an old angel new tricks.

Cas had the face for a strong bluff, and the amount of time his bets matched the misdirection didn't take very long at all. Numbers and statistics, that line of logic, was probably one of the foundations of an angel. As leader of a garrison in heaven, Cas had to excel at strategy. While he could cheat if he desired to, he never did; he played as he thought a human would.

“I was the one who suggested cheating, but he gave me this grumpy cat look so I didn't bring it up again. The way he plays he doesn't need to.” Dean gave thought to what he just said. “Unless he _is_ cheating and wants me to think he's taking the holy high road.”

The two former players left with what little money they had left, leaving one very desperate middle-aged man at the table. Dean caught sight as Cas was about to shuffle for a new game and thought now was a good time to call it quits. “Shop's closin' up soon and I'm pleasantly tired, so let's head on home,” Dean spoke over the grind of chair legs scratching the floor as he stood up.

“This gentleman desires one final game. Why is this not possible?” Cas asked cynically, the snap of the cards in his hands a salute to his stubbornness. The man to his right side nodded his head with muted desperation.

Dean's face said to Sam that he was expecting this to happen yet sure as hell didn't feel like dealing with it. With a sigh he walked up beside the man about to drown himself in debt. “Hey, what's your name?”

“Stephen.” He certainly wasn't sure what to make of this new presence at the table...

“Alright then, Steve.” Dean patted the poor guy on the shoulder. “How much cash you have to burn?”

“Not m–“

“Not much?” Dean interjected. “Yeah, I can see that.” After giving Sam talks like this when he was much younger, and to a far greater extent having Sam tell him to end on a high note, this speech was all very routine and while he would ask questions, he wasn't going to allow a break for an answer. “I'm gonna surmise from that Mount Everest of money my friend has is that you and those other guys went for broke, hoping to get some of it back. He's somewhat of a humanitarian, too, so he thinks he's doing you a solid when you beg for one more round. That's where I come in and tell you,” he stressed by slapping the befuddled guy on the back, “to cut your losses and leave with enough gas money to get home.”

Cas sighed impatiently. “I can argue for myself, Dean.”

“I know you can,” Dean agreed, “but your argument is pro-taking-his-money.”

“I'm only trying to be–“

By this rate the four of them might be here until after closing, trying to find a compromise in the dark silence of the parking lot: Cas sitting on the pavement, Dean trying to snatch the cards he held, and poor Steve trying to sneak away but being caught at every attempt. Cas's innate virtue of charity was at odds with Dean's need to get home, top off with a nightcap and snooze until noon. Their combined obduracy had its own gravitational force like they were their own Moon. Seeing them bicker like they were married was kind of cute – in short bursts.

He would have announced his exit but really, who was going to hear him? Maybe Stephen, with eyes pleading _Help me_. With a shake of his head, he left cash on the table and snuck out without a word.

The brisk night air felt benign after being inside for a couple of hours. The sparse ceiling fans and less than adequate ventilation coupled with a Labor Day weekend crowd caused the building to feel a little stuffy, even after most of the patrons left; he didn't realize how much so until he came out. The bar ended one of the major streets in town so residential homes were packed close by (even as gambling occurred right next door, Sam noted with humor), streetlight illuminating a few cars parked on the side of the road. As for the cars in the lot, Dean's Baby was solo, looking small and abandoned in the middle of it. After pressing Dean on how much he may or may not drink tonight, he unwillingly parted with her keys, of which Sam grabbed from his jean's front pocket.

He felt it before he saw or heard it, hand hovering beside the lock. That swift change in pressure that has pressed on his skin so many times before. A mental assessment in less time than it took to blink: alone, unarmed, unannounced, too close behind him to be friendly. Most things in this world that could instantaneously manifest were usually antagonistic when it came to alignment with his friends and family. “Good” and “evil” were synonymous in the Winchester's thesaurus.

A pivot and raised fist was expected to meet with flesh and bone, but was paused when there was no face to be met. It was a little lower than he expected, with tangled and frizzy bleached hair framing it. The clothes were scuffed with dirt and torn, face bruised and dried blood under the nose and set near cuts on her lips. Wherever she came from, she had been captive there for some time. But none of that was enough to conceal her identity.

“I go on summer vacation and this is the welcome I get?” Calm, coolly disinterested.

Sam was struck dumb momentarily by the absurd spontaneity of, of... this. “Meg? What are...”

“'You doing here?' I shouldn't have to explain a surprise visit to my pals, right?” Reading “Bullshit” in Sam's face, her swollen lips formed a smile. “Speaking of, you should round up the rest of them; I come bearing tidings of great disappointment. News. However you want to take it. Anyway,” she said circumspectly, “word about town is that Clarence has a date to the prom. No awkwardness there, right? So it's gonna be us for chums chummin' it up until dawn. I like that a lot better than being punched in the face.”


	3. 002

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg arrives at the Batcave to tell the boys of her whereabouts and what Crowley has been planning during the year of her absence. Castiel tries to make sense of his dreams - if they have meaning at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This kind of POV isn't where I'm most comfortable in writing; I feel limited in what I can describe and how I got about describing it. The next chapter is back to normal.

Eyes to Meg: bright smile fed by the discomfort she was causing, sitting at one side of the table alone – a seat she chose to have a better look at the two men across from her.

 

Eyes to Dean and Cas: looking at every object and every corner of the library but across from them.

 

And Sam: not exactly sure where to begin.

 

The petite demon said she had hold of “tasty tidbits” of gossip concerning Crowley when she confronted Sam outside of the bar., and considering how every other word out of his mouth related to the Winchesters or Castiel in some way –”Moose,” “Not Moose,” “my former BFF” and “those three debilitating pains in my scrotum”– that it might serve as some use.

 

“But why? You're not doing this out of obligation or out of the kindness of your heart.” The last time he had contact with her, she had no alliances, no boss to obey or a side she would deem worthy of fighting for. Meg was independent, as independent as Sam assumed a demon could be. During the near year she had been missing he could only imagine what had changed, what she had heard and witnessed to alter her resolve. That is if anything had changed. If she wasn't serving as a messenger on someone else's behalf, Meg had considerably more to lose than gain.

 

“Don't get ahead of yourself, geeky giant. I'll give you all the uncensored answers to your questions – that is if you can get Felix and Oscar to quit bickering.”

 

 _We might be here until dawn_ , Sam left unsaid. “They'll stop... eventually,” Sam sighed helplessly.

 

Meg began to casually saunter to the other side of the car, hands in her over-sized coat's pockets. “Lucky for me, I got all the time in the world.” She stayed silent once there, looking away from Sam and rocking on her toes. _She's doing this on purpose. She wants to say something and knowingly puts it off because I'm not going to like it._

 

With a contented air lightening her voice, she said, “I can't wait to see your new home.”

 

And there it is. “Oh, no, no, no. You think we're going to let you in the bunker just because you say so?”

 

Sam recalls that grin before zoning back into the one person standoff before him. She got her way, and it was surprisingly easy. Once the initial shock of a familiar face reappearing in his life again ebbed away a fraction, Dean absorbed the name Crowley like a sponge, the protective side of him overriding logic and reasoning. His little demon minions were still observing them from a distance, specifically Cas, and Meg, _Meg_ Meg, could have either accurate or complete bullshit information, but it was better than the zero leads they accumulated so far. With little option, Dean agreed that if Crowley knew she was going divulge in his secrets to the last people who should have them, the bunker was the most secure place for it. But he had his own condition: the three of them would be armed. She feigned hurt, of course, and resolved that if they “liked their foursomes naughty” then she was up for it, though she herself had no toys to bring.

 

She spared Dean and Cas some humiliation by choosing not to ride with them, the location of their home being common knowledge in the preternatural crowd long before the Winchester brothers arrived. Something in her tone, certain words she chose, crossed Sam's ears as purposely ambiguous. She was withholding already, still here in the parking lot. A portent of things to come, had to be. Yet he bit his tongue and urged his brother and the angel into the car, Dean not resisting at all being forced into the passenger seat. He sobered up enough, that was certain, but the cause of that was beginning to settle in mind like snow and made him more than distracted.

 

A chair scratching against the floor broke the stuffy silence, all attention focused on Castiel as he vacated the room. Sam found no explanation when he shot a questioning look to Dean who was just as puzzled.

 

“Maybe he had to use the little boys' room,” Meg said, picking at the dried blood on her chin. “He's a gentle soul, but not very polite. I'm pretty confident that angels weren't taught table manners.”

 

“And getting your crust all over the floor tops the list of the most courteous things you could do when you show up after missing for a year,” Dean mumbled and turned his head aside, loud enough to just determine the words. His uneasiness and sulkiness only fed her pleasure, Meg's smile growing wider at each pause, every pair of eyes that swept past her to study a book's spine or that incredibly fascinating light fixture. Everything but the woman who Cas had something of an interesting past with, made all the more interesting with the addition of Dean.

 

Resting her elbows on the table, voice syrupy thick, Meg said, “I think we could all use a drink.”

 

 

“Alright, we did everything you wanted us to do, so you think you can tell us just what the hell you're doing here?” Sam at last filled his glass -bourbon at Dean's request- and sat down, hoping his brother's volatile state wouldn't have him saying or doing something to cause any backlash from Meg. She had to be prepared; she was egging Dean on, being evasive and wanting herself, Dean and Cas in the same room and not in the open – enclosed with nowhere to run. Which is what Cas did so maybe that wasn't a good analogy...

 

After taking a moment to relish the burn of the alcohol down her throat, Meg shook her head firmly. “Not until your boyfriend comes back. Wouldn't be fair to leave him out.”

 

The flinch she expected to get out of Dean didn't happen. Even Sam was sure it would happen, with Sam repeating it to him in the past he would get his shoulder punched, and the narrowly avoided psychotic break when Kevin found out. Was it finally becoming just another word, another way of referring to Cas? Or was he only bluffing?

 

As if taking his cue, Cas returned ( _why's he walking?_ ) holding in one hand a metal bowl from the kitchen, a dripping blue cloth in the other, and looked comically determined about doing so. He placed both items carefully on the table in front of Meg and took his seat once again next to Dean. After having all eyes on him and no response, he was obliged to explain.

 

“Was I wrong in assuming she would like to scrub her face?”

 

“No, but...” Sam inclined his head toward his brother.

 

“What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“But did you really have to use a food bowl for this? We have more suitable things you could have used. We use that to prepare meals.”

 

“I wouldn't worry too much about you eating from that bowl, Sam.” She picked up the cloth and wiped at her forehead. “Wouldn't be the first time you ingested a demon's blood.”

 

Sam emptied his glass and refilled it as quick as humanly possible. This long night just got a hell of a lot longer.

 

“Alright, enough with the stalling crap.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest and slouched down, getting comfortable for whatever wild ride Meg was about to send them on. “Tell us why you're here.”

 

“Please start from the beginning,” Cas added quickly, smooth and calm with patience. A tone meant to keep Dean at bay, Meg from continuing to antagonize him, or both. “Wherever you consider the beginning to be.”

 

The water in the bowl already began to tint a copper hue as Meg dipped the cloth in to moisten it once again. She bowed her head to Cas in regards to his politeness. “The beginning... There was the full frontal assault on Dick,” she began to list off, “being absconded by villainous henchmen, and Crowley. Oh yeah, plenty of that guy.” Meg may have not noticed it, but Sam did – her hand pressing harder into her skin as she continued to scrub, the hardening of her face for that split second before she caught herself doing it. “As you can see, he really knows how to treat a lady.”

 

“You're saying this went on for a year?” Sam said incredulously, not because it was Crowley doing the torturing but because she was here and functioning, willing to recall and answer their questions.

 

“A year's nothing. If he didn't have a new hobby to keep him occupied he'd still be breaking me in. Not that is was always the boss man doing it, but when he did it he did it right. We had some quality bonding time. Looks like I wasn't the only one who had an exciting twelve months,” she perked up, scanning the three men. “Tablets, Purgatory, Dean and some monsters switched personalities, puppy love...”

 

After pondering for a moment, Cas appeared to recognize something. He leaned in close to Dean and whispered, “She also refers to me as an animal. Is this a quality demons and humans share: personifying animal traits in humans and vice versa?” Pride was the only thing keeping Dean in his chair and not from evaporating into the air so no trace of his embarrassment could be left behind.

 

“Oh Clarence, does Deany have pet names for you?” She asked Castiel dotingly.

 

Dean had that look to him again, the one he had with Kevin...

 

“He says I may act like one, but he's never unequivocally called me any pet's name. Could you mean something like 'B–'” There was a thud from under the table that cut Cas off, as well as him whipping his neck to Dean, his indignation clear as crystal.

 

One day, Sam hoped to heinously embarrass his girlfriend the same way.

 

“Enough. We're getting off topic. Now Meg, how would you describe your torture? Remember that the smallest of details count. Paint me a picture with your words.” Dean took a moment to refill his own glass, a mocking smile on his lips directed at his favorite demon.

 

“That's a shame,” she ignored Dean. “I really wanted to know. You tell me later, Castiel, when the grumpy man goes away.” Sam could see that Cas still wasn't exactly sure why Dean reacted the way he had, enough for Dean to kick him, and regretted it as much as he could – which was a quizzical look and a lowered head.

 

“So how did you end up escaping?” Sam asked, hoping to get back on the right track. “If Crowley had it in for you so much, you think he would have kept a closer watch on you.”

 

Meg began to wipe at a thick and angry-looking ring around her left wrist. “Foreign invaders on the king's land... something like that. His hand wasn't the one tucking me into bed at night for, well, you lose your sense on time in the dark. Left it to those more inexperienced. I saved up my energy for one of those schmucks for a rainy day and here I am, in the safe and welcoming arms of the Winchesters.”

 

“Invaders?” Dean asked. “Did he mean the kid and his mom?”

 

“Not likely,” Cas shook his head. “They returned to their point of origin a month ago and we know that to be true, otherwise...” He cast his eyes pitifully to Dean and tried to not let it linger. “So no, them being the intruders Crowley speaks of are not it.”

 

For something to be able to distract the demon king from enacting his revenge on Meg and to temporarily cease his pursuit of Sam and his brother, it was easy to deduce that whatever had his undivided attention was something they sure as hell should worry about. Crowley had his goals, but he always saved room for the dessert that was the chance at flaying whoever had tried to cross him, which, among a few others, was everyone in this room. Yet here they were.

 

“A few of Crowley's guys were staking out the three of us – Cas especially. Did you overhear anything about that?” asked Sam.

 

She took a genuine moment to recollect. “Yeah. Some of them putting the hurt on me had just come back from doing the surveillance gig. Just vague stuff though: 'He's not going anywhere' or 'I don't even think he remembers.' Call me nutty, I'm willing to bet Sam's soul that Crowley found what he wanted without Cas.”

 

“I'd appreciate it you left my soul out of this,” Sam quipped. “But remember what?”

 

“The time I lost,” Cas was all too quick to say. “For hours at a time I would disappear with no warning or reason. Could...” He struggled to find the correct words. Or any words.

 

“So they trapped you under a microscope to see if you'd lead them to your special place. If that's what they really wanted.” Meg's raised eyebrow was directed toward Cas. “Seems like everybody wants a little piece of you.”

 

“Crowley's boys found somebody new to crush on and I won't cry over that loss.” Dean, always ready to figuratively headbutt anybody who might want to have Cas's attention, even from people he didn't know or couldn't see. Which Meg knew, of course. _“Scary people are gonna take Cas away from you!”_ is all that he hears, and all he sees right now is a demon who does or did want a little piece. “Wouldn't happen to have picked up anything about who the new squeeze is?”

 

“Azazel,” Meg said after pregnant pause. Sam felt a little idiotic for gaping, but it was the first and most natural reaction to a name they haven't not thought of in years, the owner of which had been dead for all of them. The harbinger for his purpose on earth, his blood Sam partook. Yeah, that bastard. Cas and Dean meanwhile shared the same look of bewilderment; like they had a bad taste in their mouth that no rinse could rid.

 

“Azazel? Yellow-eyed, been dead for almost ten years Azazel?” Dean tried to reason, making sure that there were no other demons or demon acquaintances that shared the same name. Who knows, it could have been the “Mary” or “John” of Hell. Which again wasn't the best analogy. This really not a good night for them.

 

Meg shrugged. “Hey, you were the one who asked. That's what I heard in passing. Not too many times but like you said, he hasn't been a topic of conversation for a couple of zany years.”

 

“You're leaving out the context. There's no way they just said that and nothing else.”

 

She hummed “context, context” lowly to herself, feeling around in her brain the weight of the word and pointlessly darting around answering, which could have very well been the point. Deeply pondering, she filled up her own glass, offered to do the same for Cas (he squinted), before having an epiphany. “Yeah, I remember now. Something like 'Do you think he's still alive?' and 'Why was he favored so much?' That one was right before some lovely gent began to pull out all of my nails. After that things get, you know,” she scrunched her nose, “a little loud.

 

“There was one very special day when they talked about me, but not about me. Like... what's that word, honey?”

 

Knowing full well she was directing the question to him, Cas answered “Third person” and stood up again, only this time like he had a boulder strapped to his back.

 

A you that wasn't you. Tiny magnetized pieces began to connect in Sam's head, all forming a single line. One representing Roland and Jillian informing them that there are other universes: multiple versions of them existing at the same time; another for Castiel being stalked; the phenomena in the basement and Roland answering a question with a question - _The string that connects us to your world?_ The demons were most likely not talking about the Yellow Eyes from this world but of one of the countless others, where he may or may not be alive as well as many other demons they've killed. Cas and he shared the same conclusion.

 

“There's more, and Crowley found them.”

 

“More of what?” Dean asked. Across from him, Meg finally seemed to become interested in this interrogation, straightening her posture and no longer twisting the dirtied cloth in her hands.

 

“What we found in the basement yesterday morning.” He was up but he didn't know where to go; Cas wanted to do something, be somewhere to fix a potentially dangerous situation but what could he do right now? Frustration flushed his face which Dean caught sight of, and after a couple of gentle tugs on his coat's sleeve and a silent communication he was able to coax Cas back into his seat. “Roland and Jillian – a story for another day,” he said as an aside for Meg who didn't really seem to care, “said that when they came here they may have left some sort of trail... Punching through worlds to get to this one. It's very plausible that what we have in the basement is one of them.”

 

“I don't understand why that's such a big problem. After walking through that thing it's safe to say that it's out of order. Probably on it's way out, too.”

 

“The one doesn't speak for the many,” Sam replied. “Just because we got nowhere with this one doesn't mean that the others are in the same shape.”

 

“OK, that may be the case, but I still don't understand why Crowley was all over Cas about it.” Dean's ignorance was simple enough, but anger... no, it was self-loathing, crossed Cas's face anyway. Over something he could not control, something he did not even know he was doing.

 

“I... led him to them,” he looked down ashamed. “I believe that all the times I left you, Dean, I went to wherever they are.”

 

Dean's frustration was palpable. To him nothing was making sense and Sam was right there along with him going through the motions of disbelief. “But how the hell does that happen? What would make you do that?”

 

“None of us were ourselves.” He raised his eyes to Dean almost sadly.

 

“Of all the crazy shit to do, why would you do that? Why just you? You don't even know if you were _alone_ or not.” Dean halted himself from speaking anymore and held his breath. “There are way too many god damn questions and zero answers, but let's go along with it..” He tried his hardest to sound reasonable. “Crowley finds the... things there and they're in working order. What's his plan?”

 

“What a fantastic segue,” Meg said, finally nudging her way back into the fray. “You boys got so far ahead of me I thought you'd never let me get to the best part: the part about how only recently my biggest fan got super pissed off, giving me the opportunity to run for my freedom. Gee, baby Cas gets lost in the woods and we forget why we're here.” Dean made a lazy gesture with his hand for her to say whatever she needed to say even if she wasn't looking for his permission.

 

“Seems like the dastardly Mr. Crowley had a setback in whatever plan he had going. Don't quote me on this, but for what I think was probably two days ago, give or take a week or month, the atmosphere where I was being held went from hostile to a total downer. They weren't nervous or anything like that. But they were definitely more timid, mind half on the job of making me bleed. I just couldn't feel the _love_ anymore. Makes me a little misty-eyed just thinking about it.” Not even a pantomime sniffle out of her.

 

“And due to this distraction, you made your escape.” Instead of confirming what Castiel had just said, the unkempt demon did a lackluster job of holding back a laugh. “...Did I say something amusing?” He asked cautiously.

 

“I tried to ignore it, honest. I thought I could go for the entire night and not bring it up, but... Why are _you_ ,” she pointed to Cas, “dressing like _him_?” Then pointing to Dean.

 

Well, Sam had to admit, if somebody from Cas' past happened to cross ways with him now, they would be asking the same question. Though he did not forgo the suit and coat entirely, Dean persuaded him into wearing more casual clothing some days of the week. A night like tonight, the evening off with a trip to the local bar for beer and gambling (and Sam was still beyond astonished Cas was any good at it), a pair of boots, denim, and a dark gray short-sleeved shirt that was certainly Dean's. Cas's choice of attire would be much larger if not for two things: him being the fussiest man alive, and Dean tying with him for fussiest man alive. Many days have the both of them wasted at second-hand stores disagreeing about what looked best and pants that, if Cas bought, were “a damn good reason to break up with him.” As summer faded with the light into fall and winter, and Castiel would be in need of heavier, thicker clothing, Sam made it a point to follow them to one of these stores to see first-hand some of the disparate choices the angel made and Dean's expostulation, hearing how desperate his empty threats were. But in the meantime, other than height, they shared the same build, making whatever clothing Dean had essentially Cas's. No matter what struggle he put up against it, Sam knew his brother well enough to see the blinking neon sign above him saying “Ignore me; I like it when Cas wears my stuff.”

 

The only difference in Dean's attire was a forest green button-up, which Castiel was currently taking in, likely thinking than yeah, we do dress alike, for the first time even knowing full well the clothes were borrowed. Dean, he assumed, conveniently chose to ignore that and as long as no one pointed it out, he would let it continue unabated. But the fiendish little vixen did, and all he could do now was to pretend he did not hear her.

 

“I suppose your observation is correct, seeing as Dean and I sh–“

 

“Share the same taste in clothes!” Dean frantically butted in. “Yeah, oh yeah, he uh, he really looks up to me and told me a couple weeks ago he wanted to copy my style.” His floundering was desperate, but even this humiliation was preferred to admitting that he was so contented in his relationship enough to share personal possessions, certainly to someone like Meg. “Since I'm such a good guy, I told him he could.” Meg's face was difficult to read and being perceived as a threat to Dean. After trying to figure her out, he finally blurted, “He's not wearing my clothes!”

 

Cas innocently insisted, “But I am.”

 

After receiving the knockout punch, Dean slowly placed his forehead down on the table, covering his head with his hands. A groan from the dead itself vibrated against it.

 

“Aw, Cas, you killed your husband. That wasn't very nice of you.”

 

“He's making progress,” Cas explained with the tiniest pout of chagrin, “but he's still in denial over the most obvious of details.”

 

“I guess that sort of thing happens when you shack up with damaged goods.”

 

“Isn't there a reason why you're here, Meg?” Sam warned before either of them could continue toward the inevitably fruitless ending.

 

“Right, right, the escape thing. I was just getting to that. Don't look at me that way, Sam. I was. As for what's got their tighty whities in a twist, I'm at as much a loss as you are. Crowley's not happy, they're not happy... Their game plan has changed, kinda like those meddling Winchesters are at it again. Are you, Cas? Are you at it again?”

 

He looked concerned now, and not due to Dean. Like he had recalled something. “I'm not sure.”

 

“What's up?” Sam asked.

 

“Small details, what I assumed was a lingering effect of what has happened recently. Visions... Dreams would be a more applicable term, even though angels do not dream. Not the dreams I visit, either”–Dean sobbed–“but something of my own mind. Things I've not forgotten but have chosen to forget.”

 

“When did the dreams start?” This may lead them nowhere, but it was a start and, most damning, all they had to go on.

 

“Less than a month. Too early to necessarily be related to what Meg is speaking of and not late enough to rule it out entirely. It's also around the time they left.”

 

“What are they about?” Sam pressed. “No matter how small of a detail it is, it might be helpful.”

 

Meg nodded in agreement. “That's right, so don't leave out any of the kinky bits.”

 

“I've never had any, even with Dean.”

 

“God damnit, Cas,” Dean cried.

 

“The locations are normally of places I have visited in heaven with touches of my own consciousness – things I have seen here that would be incongruous there. Human weaponry, new and antiquated. Food and drink. Things I've seen while traveling with you and your brother. Rooms of this shelter but never in one piece. No living beings other than myself as a viewed them. Occasionally I would see myself as I would see others – like dolls, frozen in place. I could hear our voices even though we had no mouths, no features at all. Very mundane with no hidden context or meaning. Although...”

 

“And this is the part where he says there was absolutely nothing mundane about it,” Meg leaned closer to Sam and whispered. He saw the truth in her words.

 

“In relation to the topic at hand,” Cas insisted, probably irritated that they were so quick to correctly judge, “and not to something that may be an effect of something I've seen. But it would be a striking coincidence if one did not involve the other.” His eyes darkened, stringing together theories in his head.

 

“Before the 'dream,' the name of an angel frequently came up on angel radio, one whom, up until then, led an innocuous life in Heaven – a very significant life and to my knowledge has never taken a vessel on earth, but a solitary one that had no need for others. From what I've gathered, this angel is missing. Quite a coincidence too, since the same happened to Metatron.” The blank stares of Sam and Meg provoked him to elaborate with a sigh, like they should have known already. “The two of them were very good acquaintances.”

 

Metatron, the scribe of God and the one who wrote the tablets had a friend? Did angels even have the capacity to genially care for another angel? “Cas, do you think there's a chance he or she knows what's written on the tablets?”

 

He shook his head. “God made that Metatron did not tell anything, mortal or immortal, about what was transcribed. The only ones with that ability are Him, Metatron, and prophets. If only it were that simple,” his voiced dipped with remorse. To release the burden on Kevin, maybe. Sealing away the demons forever when they gained the knowledge of a few sentences etched into stone. That resolution was so close, so close they could touch it, yet it wasn't enough.

 

“I heard Sandalphon in some dreams, not like what I'd hear over radio but speaking _to_ me, adding brief commentary to whatever I imagined.” Sam made a mental note to read up on the name once Meg was politely escorted out of their home, and maybe after a nap. Was that Sandalphon with an “f” or a “ph...” “Or what I believe I imagined.”

 

“Have you ever met this elusive and highly-renowned angel?” Dean asked through the table. At least he was still active in the conversation, unlike with Kevin. You could have shoved a fork in his eye and not have gotten a reaction out of him.

 

“Much like Metatron, no. The job ordained to Sandalphon is all time-consuming, that being the shepherding of souls to their place in heaven, and, at one time, spoke to God directly. Even you two have met it.”

 

Meg pouted her lips and tutted at Cas. “That's no way to speak to the ambassador of angels, like it's a table. I'm disappointed in you.”

 

Grunting like he was climbing out of bed, Dean stirred, sitting up finally to reclaim adult status. He looked skeptically at Cas. “What do you mean we've met it before?”

 

The dark-haired angel positively glowered at the two people who disrespectfully interrupted him. “Sandalphon has never taken a human vessel before. And despite of our labeling as 'brother' and 'sister,' until that point we are gender-less; the pronouns come only after that. So, as far as I know, and because your language has no word for 'one without gender,' Sandalphon remains 'it.' And like I have just told you, Dean, all souls upon entering Heaven are greeted by... it, though none have any recollection after.”

 

“Lemme guess, another ridiculous stipulation?”

 

“If that's the way you perceive it.”

 

“The voice you heard might have been from suggestion, maybe not. For now there's no way to prove anything. Was there anything else?” Sam continued to prod.

 

Cas's reaction was one Sam wasn't expecting. He knew it wasn't physically possible, but Cas seemed to shrink into his seat – his posture slumping over or sliding down in his seat, something. Blue eyes avoided him and the two others at the table. Clenching his jaw Cas must have known he was showing all the tells of hesitation, purposely withholding or delaying telling any insight he had. Blinding distress for someone lacking verbal tact.

 

Never missing the chance to pour lemon juice over a fresh wound, Meg chimed in. “I think he had a nightmare. It's a very sensitive subject, Sam, and I think you should leave him alone. The poor baby's never had one.”

 

Starve a fire of oxygen and it dies out, so don't give her anymore fuel, Sam. “You might not think it's helpful or relevant to Crowley and whatever mess found him, but a lot of crazy theories start out that way. Even it it's difficult to talk about.”

 

“It... I don't think it was a nightmare, and neither is it a traumatic thing to speak of. Just a very strange time to have it brought back to my attention. Then again, that's what I hear dreams do.” He smiled crookedly at Sam.

 

“I saw them... Monstrosities, even for demons. Though I saw them only briefly when I traversed Hell for Sam and Dean, it was more than enough to recall in grotesque detail. To try to describe a demon's true form to humans only ends with inadequate illustrations and befuddled faces, I won't even begin to try.” Dean, at his side, seemed to take this as a challenge, like it was a direct insult to him and not his kind. “They're...”

 

Meg snapped her fingers. “Oh! I think I know what you're talking about. Haven't seen them in awhile, myself. How are they doing?”

 

“It was a _dream_.”

 

“But angel's don't _dream_ and here you are getting quality one-on-one time with those little kiss-ass relics.”

 

“Excuse me,” Dean raised his voice, “I know you two are happily reminiscing about old friends, but you're leaving the humans in the dark. Care to elaborate?”

 

The two battled silently for rights to explain even if it was clear Meg had no intention on winning. Whatever they shared, she knew it would bother Cas more to speak of it and would enjoy that small discomfort she placed on him. A counterproductive way to show love but... Well, that was complicated. It was complicated before Dean became a variable. Was Meg just being herself, a smart mouth and a locked glass box encasing her real emotions? Was it fragmentary jealousy? A little of both, maybe. Either way, it was something Sam would never find out.

 

Realizing her position was now “stalemate,” he huffed, finishing off the little liquor left in Dean's glass (his own was empty). He softly placed it back on the table but his hands never left it, a finger absently rubbing the rim. “Lilith was one of the first demons, but she wasn't the _first_. That distinct honor belongs seventy-two fallen angels.”


	4. 003

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg makes her intentions clear to Dean; casualties of a new war, and the difference a thousand years can make to those returning to the surface.

She poured enough burgundy wine into the glass stemware to only sample it – it most likely being the only thing of value in this cramped living space. Not that should could blame the dear thing: a young working girl kicked to the curb with little more than a “get out” by the man she loved, left with little time -and money- to afford what was owed to her, which was much more than a studio. Nevertheless she kept it clean, and furnished it with enough to support her until her life balanced out once again – not abstaining cash from purchasing, direct from the humble merchants of Craigslist, a modest-sized flat screen and black leather sofa; a simple glass coffee table between the two, two coasters placed on top but with no beverages resting on them. Quite minimalist.

 

Well, _if_ her life becomes her own to be able to be balanced out, she humored herself, admiring the dark liquid she swirled within the glass. This container of flesh and hair and blood was going to be commandeered for however long it was deemed necessary. By whom? Who's to say this early in the game.

 

“It has been far too long,” she spoke to her drink, nostalgic and bordering on chastising, before smoothly drinking it down.

 

She scrunched her nose. “I should have waited longer.”

 

A deep chuckle from the man on the couch. “It has been many centuries, Astaroth, since you've freely roamed Earth. Very little has remained the same.”

 

Grabbing the neck of the bottle and turning it until she found a label, she asked, “You sure it's due to that and not because this was made in the United States?”

 

“Perhaps, though I have no point of comparison. You always did enjoy the products of human creation much more than myself.”

 

Rich volcanic soil nurturing the fruit that made the trips here worthwhile; the Greeks, the Italians, though not the ones to discover it, certainly perfected its craftsmanship doing nothing else in their lives but tending the vineyards. With so much risk involved from competitors, war, drought or over-saturation, it was little wonder that some of those entrepreneur's deals would send them to demons like her ten years later. Maybe that's why the product of today suffered: business has gone global. So numerous, too varying. Or simply the Americans were poor wine makers, making this choice in nationality a disappointing one.

 

Astaroth scrutinized the bottle once more. It was either swill or no swill. Oh well. Bottom's up.

 

“Do you think partaking in human indulgences like this appears to make me weak?” No malice in the question, only asked because she wanted an honest answer.

 

Caim leaned back, spreading his arm over the back of the couch, comfortable, confident. His voice flowed just as smoothly. But even water can shape solid rock over time. “No. It is... We are incapable of doing something like that, don't you think?”

 

“You make it seem like we had no choice – but,” she asserted as she saw that chastising look he'd display when Beleth acted obnoxious, “I understand what you meant.”

 

We did have a choice, and we made the right one. Her smile was a gentle one. To be able to purely and profoundly trust your family, to look at them everyday and know without hesitation, without question, that they wanted what you wanted, they held the same values, that betrayal was an act they had no word for, was what separated them from the humans and their more rebellious demon cousins. Unfortunately, really, that demons had strayed so far from what Lucifer had envisioned. Daddy went away and the true colors of the younger demons were displayed for all to see. Forgoing deals to sleaze about – years spent boozing and fucking, repeat, forgetting what they literally signed up for. _Choosing_ who gets to rule hell, not because it is rightful or owed or fair but because _I say so_. The crown is too large for the head of the child king.

 

A mess. Shameful. A real fixer-upper.

 

The sheepish grin caught the eye of Caim though he did not recognize it.

 

She turned around to nudge the shoulder of Belith hunched over in front of the refrigerator's open door, as he has been since he and Caim arrived, and offered him the wine of lackluster quality knowing that he would ignore her. He did, lost in whatever world he goes to when faced with foods and juices. “If you don't shut that soon the engine will burn out and you'll end up wasting...” Gently pushing him to the side, she pulled out a carton. “...Whatever this is. What is it?” The open container was pointed in Caim's direction.

 

“ _That_ is Chinese food.”

 

No, no that's not right. This mass of brown and scrap chicken and undercooked rice? This? Who had the nerve, the audacity to call this Chinese food, nevertheless food! Wrong, this was all wrong. Not even an imitation but a damn mockery. I need to sit down.

 

The couch creaked beneath her as she fell back onto it, weary from so much disillusionment in so little time, and despite it, still brought the bottle. She looked at it as if it were an enemy. Which it was.

 

“Caim, distract me, please,” she begged with a pout, lifting her feet onto the table and stretching similarly to the man beside her, arm placed above his.

 

“Done re-familiarizing yourself?”

 

Astaroth grunted. Travesty...

 

“Since your arrival is now official and I am sure you have questions, a report is in order.” The congeniality from a moment ago drained away to his usual tone: stern but never rough; something to guide you and not coddle should you happen to fall along the way. They respected one another equally, the demons like them – no one better than the other. But with such self-assurance, you were glad to have someone like him on your side.

 

Her pettiness also began to dissolve. Of course she knew why she truly came back to Earth after such a long reprieve, but no harm in having something else to anticipate. Caim delicately inferring to their mission as a “distraction” crossed her with some shame, though it was only meant as a jest as his brand of humor could be as dry as tinder. But do personality quirks like that not make them unique? To have independent thought, a wide array of emotions, likes and dislikes – things the angels have ironically accused them of lacking? Oh our beloved feathery adversaries, we are proud but never vain. There will be another day, another hour, to enjoy a drink and maybe curse purveyors of dubiously edible abominations. This was a little more important.

 

A bubble of anxiousness inflated in her vessel's stomach. Discouraging news was to be expected – they all knew the risks involved as they went out into the world – but to have it turn from intangible to reality is something you're never truly prepared for. Like in all battles, you hope to keep casualties to a minimum – for the side you fight for, anyway.

 

Caim took a deep breath, being able to read the change in Astaroth's face. “Of the earliest ten we sent through, only five returned. While we won't put them in the deceased category yet, it's safe to assume they will be.”

 

The refrigerator door finally swung closed, slow, intentional. Beleth shuffled his way to Caim's side with shoulders hunched, looking so drawn, like the cold gave him energy and his supply was withheld. He sat down just as lifelessly on the floor, leaning his back against the sofa, head tilted slightly to the side and staring straight ahead. To really know what went on in that mind of his... The true complexities of his thoughts, not the bare basics he outwardly showed. They could read and translate him well enough, but there had to be so much more in the core of him. Did it have anything to do with...

 

Nude nylon stockings itched at her leg; funny how she only not began to notice them on her, restrictive as they are. They felt thick for being so sheer, especially around the thighs. Was this vessel gaining weight? No, that wasn't it; she saw to it that this body was a healthy one. Abandon them, retrieve a knife from the kitchen and slice them to cloth. Too impulsive. As an hour ago, so is now. Vibrantly red fingernails coated the hand that rubbed timidly at her legs anyway, smoothing the skirt covering them. A business girl. A 9-to-5 girl. A girl who thought demons existed in the same fairy tale world of heaven and God and the Bible. Either way, all is well and good for a demon – you may not believe in them, but they believe in you.

 

Astaroth didn't want to ask, _but I have to_. Whether she spoke up or remained silent, he would tell her, and she did not want present herself as if she thought such a loss was impossible. It is fine to hurt. Surely the others digested the oppressive news the same way. They are family, as old as time itself. To have even one here one moment and gone, an existence completely extinguished is so... unfamiliar. But she, like the others, would mourn on their own time.

 

Pink tongue darting out to wet her lips. “Who?”

 

“Sallos, Amy, Bathin, Naberius, and Phenex.”

 

Dear Naberius, the runt of their family, but most eager – the first to volunteer and the first to travel to the other side, if in fact there was another side to travel to. Even Beleth fed off of his enthusiasm, normally one aloof in his emotional attachments, perhaps other than Caim.

 

He idolized their father, didn't he? From the very beginning, as the wheels of fate creaked and groaned to life, he was right there beside him. A groupie from day one, she smiled bitterly to herself. Sweet Naberius knew the risk. This did not quell the knot in her chest.

 

“I...” Caim looked away for a moment to recollect his composure. “It is very much to take in. But we must focus on the successful trials, yes?”

 

“Of course.” Amy, gone. Never to share another joke with Phenex. Without Sallow around, who would tell her that “hellhounds make for better companionship”?

 

The conciseness of his voice returned, a rocky path smoothing out once again. “The five that did return were unharmed and reported their exit points being relatively similar to the counterpart here, other than indiscreet differences in the weather. Of course, being as this is only a trial, going further than the point of exit was not a requirement, so it's probable that the similarities vary the further toward civilization you go.”

 

“Returning is the focus for now.”

 

“What good would our precious cargo be if it became lost?” Caim's dark eyes sparkled a little. It was almost cute.

 

Woe to the fool who ruined their dream.

 

“But because there were failures, we have to deduce what made the other half successful. Murmur and the others will return to conclude it was not a fluke, as will others, and we'll, as they say, go from there.”

 

“We haven't lost any of our people to Crowley's?”

 

Caim chuckled at the distasteful turn of her face. “Not yet. While we have strength as our ally, it is easy to become overwhelmed. When that happens we focus elsewhere. Because power shifts so frequently, no stronghold for either side has been set.”

 

Our people. Demons like _us_ , not the demons who chose to side with them. In retrospect it seems harsh to to refer to them as “them,” but that's accurate. Nor do they not appreciate joining the correct team! They, down to their makeup, are separate. They are... unique

 

While fighting for opposing ideals, the method to them is the same: the answers they seek don't reside in this world. What the renegade demon aims for isn't to seal the angels away or even find God. As the underground world of monsters and soul-stealers found out, God isn't too much different than themselves. The seat He claimed at the head of the table belongs to others. Just a regular schmuck of a subordinate like us. Wasn't there a song about that in to 1990's?

 

Granted, the usurper found these vortexes first shortly before they decided to act. One less problem to worry about. Their side battles against Crowley's, they take control for a brief time before reinforcements arrive, another fight, and it will repeat infinitely until one side succeeds. While withdrawing seems a coward's strategy, there is a method to it. With Hell being divided several times over, only so many will join either side, and opinions are changing every minute. Sacrificial lives will be limited. The artillery mustn't be wasted so heedlessly. That sort of idealism may work for Crowley, but not for those who actually want to win a war.

 

“Would you be upset if I went into the field?”

 

“Tempted to kill traitors?”

 

“So bad I can taste copper.”

 

A small was shared between them.

 

Beleth dropped the heel of his foot twice against the floor, most likely waking the tenants sleeping on the floor below. Getting Caim's attention?

 

“This one here is very proud of his assault on Crowley.” Bel bared his teeth to her followed by a hum of a job done successfully.

 

“Let me guess... You kicked him?”

 

“Like you don't want to do the same,” Caim said slyly.

 

“How 'bout this, Bel.” She moved to fold her legs under herself, finally being able to view the two more comfortably. “Next time you see him, stab him in the head for me.” Not that he was actively looking for or needed her permission, or anyone else's for that matter. To outsiders his actions were chaotic, unpredictable and dangerous. To him, to Caim, there was controlled frenzy. Loyal to his core, just a tendency to be frantic. Once reigned in, brought back to the now, back from wherever he went to, that harnessed energy could make the angels weep.

 

He nodded as he stood up and strode back to the kitchen.

 

“Speaking of stabbing,” Astaroth persisted, “how goes Bel's quest?”

 

“A 'quest' implies that we're going from point A to point B and so on, in search of something.” He grimaced. “With Bel it's more like A, a quarter to B, and back to A again. But we all expected this.”

 

The slide of a large chopping knife against the wooden block that held it, the strong reflection of the lights hanging from the low ceiling catching Beleth's eye, making him cry out. More like a hiss, really, teeth bared and air squeezing out of his throat. Now satisfied, he disappeared.

 

Nothing out of the ordinary, though occasionally Caim knew the destination of the seemingly random disappearances, indecipherable to all else but him. He shook his head and looked everything but disgruntled at the demon's spontaneity. After so many years of doing exactly this – chasing Bel down, talking him down from harming others – never did he see it as a chore. They were all accepting of Beleth's quirks, of course, but it was Caim who went so much further to accommodate the change that occurred when...

 

“You just had to say 'stab.'”

 

“Any idea who he's off to assassinate?” she asked cheekily. Off to save the day he goes. Save somebody's day.

 

He stood up slowly, acting in a way his vessel might have considering the years it had compared to hers. “Of course. Exactly like he knows where that damn spear of his is.”

 

“He'll have forever to find it.” Her face cast a solemn shadow.

 

An agreeable incline of his head and he was gone. The sun would be rising any minute now, illuminating the world and how much it has changed.

 

“'It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life...'”

 

A new day, yes, different from the rest yet exactly the same. A new life... no, not really. With a little fortitude and strength (no luck), this life would have the hands of time turned back to when there was _order_. All fulfilled their roles and the world functioned how it should have. As it was planned to.

 

Order would be regained, but this time would be so much more. Though failing in the past, time, generous with its gifts, has given them one that they would be spending an eternity repaying. A loophole.

 

“Not just for lawyers anymore.”

 

Her eyes locked onto that infernal wine bottle once more. She hissed at it, failing miserably to replicate Beleth's.

 

 

“Before being cast out of Heaven Lucifer gained many followers. There certainly was unrest within the ranks before he rose to power, but it was because of him they began to organize. While they whispered in dark corners of their aggravation of having to serve humans, he cursed God's name loud enough to resound in every corner of Heaven. They found him, he found them, his voice becoming theirs.

 

“When the threat of banishment finally came he asked them if they were certain that was the path they wished to tread – to leave Heaven for eternity, battle against their Father and fellow brothers and sisters. The answer was a resounding 'yes.' They gave up everything and all they've ever known believing so passionately in their ideals, that Lucifer was right and God was erroneous, and creating their own version of heaven to one day strike back against it using the disfigured souls of the creatures God loved so dearly. You do have to enjoy his sense of irony.

 

“Seventy-two of Lucifer's faithful fell with him, angels of all ranking. While humans tend to forget that he remained an angel and wasn't in fact a demon, this couldn't be said for them. You could say they were prototype demons, the first of their kind and truly unique among them. While demonically pure, their former life has given them strength greater than most if not all demons. They rarely make trips to the surface (what their duties are in Hell have only been hinted at by interrogated demons), there are records of both humans and angels being driven insane en masse, executions by ambiguous means, entire armies persuaded into selling away their souls, a boon for their enemy and a profit for hell. Whatever their agenda may be, it is never discussed but with others like them. A judicious strategy.”

 

 

“Lilith was precious to Lucifer, being the first human defector, but it was only a _dream_. Lucifer is no longer a threat.” Cas looked suspiciously at the people around him. “Why would they appear to me?”

 

“Why wouldn't they? If I could sneak into people's sleep I'd definitely snuggle into yours.”

 

Wanting nothing more than to kick a hole through her chest, Dean begrudgingly let her have her way.

 

“Oh don't give me that look. Your loverboy and I would be crocheting an afghan to match your guns-and-ammo décor, nothing more. Besides,” she said smugly, “angels don't dream, so that would never happen, and neither would the Ars Goetia make an unannounced visit to dreams that definitely, totally, did not happen.”

 

Sam spoke up before Meg could talk Dean and Cas into a circle. “You mentioned that other angel before; Sandalphon? Could that be the reason for the... not-dream?”

 

“Maybe,” Cas said, seriously considering it. “I'm not sure why Sandalphon would use indirect imagery like that and not simply come forward. Would it be risky to do that?”

 

“Well, isn't this grand?” Dean lied. “All of this important and extremely relevant information and nowhere in recorded history has anybody mentioned it. So we got some souped-up uber demons and nobody thought to grab a pen and paper?” He knew that Meg held no answer but he looked expectantly at her anyway, eyebrow raised, _Well?_

 

Meg, meanwhile, was as cool as always. “They've done a good job of keeping themselves on the down low in Hell, sticking to the status quo since they got there. On Earth... I'll put it like this. Their dirty deeds have been so minuscule compared to the exploits of us blue collar demons that we reduced their history to dust. We've been kicking up the shit so often and so long that we wrote them right out of historical literature.” She sounded very proud of herself, like she was the one to burn those books. “But who can say for sure if nothing at _all_ exists. There has to be a tome or something out there,” she waved her hand in the air dismissively.

 

“You said before that these guys have some sort of job or purpose in Hell. What exactly is it?” inquired Sam.

 

She drew out the pause, draining the dramatic effect for all it was worth, ostensibly running the question through her head once more. A crooked smile inflating like a balloon. She knew something, and it was a pearl. But like a carrot on a stick, she was going to let these wonderful horses chase after it for awhile. Why not? Nothing stays secret for long when it comes to Winchester and Friends. If they don't sniff out the clues first, the clues will knock right on their door asking for a cup of sugar. “I'm finished with what I came here to do, so if you fella don't mind I'll just see myself out.”

 

It all happened simultaneously: Meg stood up true to her word; Sam mumbled a curse under his breath, figuring that she would do something like this, to pick and choose what to divulge in; Cas making a grab for Dean as he abruptly rose from his chair and commanded, “I'll see you out.” Something that is normally said so amicably being morphed into humorless antagonism was actually pretty funny. The flip of a switch, that Dean. Makes for a chaotic relationship, with or without the hunting and the dying and the dying again.

 

 

Cas's fingers were curled to fists, white for some minutes now, eyes wide and trying to retain some sense of calm. “I should have went with them.” He spoke to Sam, not knowing exactly where the human was and “feeling” him instead.

 

Sam tried to sort though Cas's logic, still in the same seat as before. “Afraid Dean's gonna do something? Or Meg?” He laughed to himself. “Or both?”

 

His head snapped to Sam, utterly forlorn and wracked with the guilt of the two potentially killing one another. He had this dreadful scenario in his head, but to hear someone else saying it for him made the chance all the more probable. Meg with an angel blade in the back, Dean with a torn throat... Some explosive killing them both. It could happen. Dean is very crafty when it comes to do-it-yourself weaponry.

 

Resisting the need to bop Cas on the head with his fist, Sam tried his best to comfort Cas. “You know Meg. Nothing pleases her more than getting under everybody's skin. She's pretty good at it. Right now she's... She's kinda doing what I do to the both of you.”

 

A twitch of an eye. Okay, he's partially listening.

 

“I tease you guys, right? If I see an opening I'm going to take it. It annoys you, but you've never taken it as mean-spirited. 'Cause it's not. I do it because...” Damnit, don't get sappy. “Family does stupid stuff like that. The more we love someone, the more we love to bust their chops. You're starting to get the hang of it, too.” Cas began to relax in his chair – still worried, but beginning to understand Sam's meaning. “I have a little fun with you Cas because you're family, long before you were ever with my brother. Dean, he's... happy, I mean genuinely happy, for the first time in a long time. I wouldn't be his brother if I wasn't an ingrate.”

 

Cas's heart was twisting in his chest. Strange. What a strange sensation. He understood the why, but how? The conflict in his mind causing other parts of the body to react. But that was in his head too, wasn't it? His heart was not capable of such movement. For some reason the heart is synonymous with matters of kindness and love. That's all in the mind, too, the heart being nothing more than a pump to cycle oxygenated blood through the body. Then why? Why feel this way?

 

“Do you think that...?” His voice came out much meeker than intended.

 

“If Meg cares for you as much as I and the entire world think she does, then yeah. It'll be fine.” He was satisfied with that answer. He was willing to put money on that answer.

 

 

There was much backtracking. Meg knew damn well which rooms to cross and which hallways to tread to get to the exit, it hasn't been _that_ long since she had. But since she had such a lovely tour guide with her, and figuring this would be her last chance of being inside the mythical Men of Letters bunker, the inconvenient and roundabout path was the best path. A locked door or a dark room enticed her like a crow to a precious jewel in antiquated mystery novels. Had to go inside, had to touch the furniture and flick the lights. Had to make Dean wait, test him, drive the person who wanted her out mad.

 

“I could go for a snack. Where's the kitchen?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“What's Sam's room like? All law books and pictures of dogs? Probably flannel bed sheets.”

 

“Why don't you ask him next time you see him?”

 

“...I really enjoyed being inside your brother.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Too close to his room. No; the room he shared with Cas. It stopped being his – not that he ever claimed it to be such a revered spot in this place, “nobody gets in without a password” – and became theirs. Even with Sam he said “ours.” Don't go in there, no, private. Not because they happened to have sex there, it was... one of the few things they could claim. Our home, yeah, but our room was unique. Special. _They_ were there, in the walls, the floor, their words and memories absorbed, and in return being given a calm not often found on the outside. He and Sammy had the Impala, he and Cas had the room with the faucet which presence never failed to exasperate the angel.

 

Like other doors, Meg tried to lackadaisically survey what was held within and Dean, trying desperately not to show how urgently he wanted her nowhere near it, persuaded her to continue.

 

She took the lead as they went up the steps to the “front door,” the lightboards beneath them dark as usual. Almost done. A few more feet and she's out of my sanctum. But she turned to face him before opening the door, leaning against it and hands clasped in front of her. How tiny she looked in that over-sized coat, a daughter wearing her father's clothing, admiring him, trying to be him. She was too old for that and admired no one but herself. Could she be as vulnerable as one?

 

“I don't see the door opening.” With the end in sight, Dean's patience was peeling away with every few seconds subtracting another layer. An-d she's still not moving. Lips pursed, face subdued but amused. Reading him, feeling him out, but for what? She was the one who wanted to leave, why the hell is she loafing around?

 

Scratched lips spread into a toothy grin. “Say it.”

 

“Say what?”

 

“You can play dumb well, Deano, but not this time.” She rolled her eyes when he didn't answer. “What's you've been wanting to tell me all night.” Still nothing. “You are just a barrel of laughs tonight, aren't you?” she chidingly shoved Dean's shoulder which was _really_ the last thing he wanted her to do. “About Cas. And don't give me that 'there's nothing to talk about' crap because there is, and it's a pretty big something.”

 

He didn't want to talk about Cas, not to her, not to Sam. Dean wanted her gone so he could get some sleep and not have to think about Meg loving Cas and, in his own way, Cas loving Meg. What's there to talk about? He knows where she stands: Dean stole the fool from her and she was determined to make his life marginally more rotten than it was before. Until when? He died? Cas? When Dean does or says something so rancorous that he can't bear the sight of him any longer? And showing up out of the blue to give them information willingly and not under threat of violence was too easy, too convenient. It's a god damn game.

 

Standing tall, teeth about to shatter in his mouth. There was no intimidating her, the reputation of a Winchester meaning less than zero, but he wanted to illustrate that he would not play.

 

“No need for the chest puffing, now. I meant for a curt, friendly discussion, but since it looks like you've gone into a 'Me Tarzan, me protect Jane' mood, I'll just keep it curt. This is probably the craziest thing you've heard tonight but,” she took a deep breath, “neither of us had a claim on each other, dork.”

 

Dean didn't care much for the name-calling.

 

“Cas has this talent for... finding the best in everyone. Obviously. He figured out early on I wasn't the tough-as-steel girl I let myself on to be. I hated that he saw through me so easily, but it was so _interesting,_ you know? He's a curiosity; an angel that wasn't so holy. Forbidden. Kind of sexy.” She averted her eyes to the floor, smiling sadly. “And that's what makes him appealing to you too, that no matter how messed up you are, he looks at you and thinks 'He's a good man, and I'd sacrifice myself for him to continue being that good man.'”

 

It was getting harder to remain passive. To not talk about he felt, about what he meant to Cas, to talk about him so... fondly. Meg can't do that, no, she can't do that anymore. Even if it is all true. Mine. Sauntering across territory that isn't yours.

 

“Cas loves -or loved- me in his own way, not exactly the same way I felt about him. It's not only because the Romeo and Juliet, two kids on the different side of the tracks thing we have going, but that he had someone in mind before we met. Like no matter how he'd feel about me or anyone else, they'd never compare to whom his heart was really set on. He loved you for forever... and had no reason to expect you'd ever feel the same.” The forlorn look came back, slight as a breeze, before she caught herself and pretended not to care. “He kissed me, but you know that a kiss can mean everything or zilch. That kiss wasn't a claim to anything. We weren't going steady, we never were. He didn't get a tattoo of my name on his chest.”

 

Meg turned around to open the door, standing in the open frame and facing the predawn skies. “But he tattooed his name on you.”

 

 

Neither Cas nor Dean were all that tired; the ritual of going to bed felt like the right thing to do. Changing clothing, lights out in the bunker, brushing teeth. All days needed closure, and without this daily repetition one day would bleed into the next: the aches and pains, the troubles of discovery and treachery and whatever rotten else there could be. Preparation to sleep, and possibly sleep itself, smooths the transition.

 

Despite the long day and what transpired shortly before, that wasn't necessarily what chased away drowsiness. Something was different in the air, something floating aloft in it like a bubble – non-threatening but moving, never knowing where it would land. Neither of them were angry or upset with the other: Castiel relieved an altercation had been avoided and curious to what was said between them, even if it was personal in nature; and Dean... still trying to figure Cas out, he surmised. About the bonds he has made and what he withheld from Dean because he knew it was always on his mind, things the defensive and emotionally abused human might find embarrassing or _too much._ Devotion as only an angel could give and he would suffocate.

 

He wanted to hear it, to have Cas grab his head between his hands so he couldn't run away and say all of those god damn beautiful words, mortify him until he died of it. How much he needed him, to tell him he was worth something, that he mattered – that what he did here mattered. Validate him. Console him. Never leave you, Dean. I'll stay.

 

Cas sat on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor, watching Dean pull a very faded Rolling Stones t-shirt over his head. Whatever was said between him and Meg mustn't have been heated, but his eyes weren't focusing as they should, like he was still replaying what happened in his head. Of course it was about him... In what context? Kind words? Something to make Dean regret the choices he's made? He would not ask. When Dean was ready, he would talk. Though this method tended to be explosive, it was, for now, the only way he could communicate. Castiel could handle the blast.

 

Falling onto the bed, Dean was silent. Dean in bed and Cas sitting to the side, it felt like old times again. Micheal and rings and Chuck Shurley's sonofabitchin' novels/Winchester Gospels. Watching me sleep because you're weird. Coming to terms with how he felt, how he _had_ felt. Lost in a daze, debating with himself why he cared so much for a human, and a pawn at that. With that Cas grew from a boy to a man, figuring out what love meant to him. It meant him putting up with this poor bastard for a couple more years, as well as fast food burgers.

 

Dean took initiative when Cas made no movement. “Come here already, would you?” Shocked as if he had been called upon for an award, Cas turned to lay on his side next to him and still looked timid. “If I told you everything's fine, would you believe me?” He expected the silence. “Bad track record with that, I know. But I am. Just a little something to chew on.”

 

He did believe Dean. Maybe he shouldn't, but he did. _You can trust him tonight_.

 

The lights were on; he didn't want to turn them off. He faced Cas, his head tilted down so his hair brushed Cas's chin, his hand hesitating between then before snaking around him. He smells good. He smells _like_ good, detergent and familiarity and stability. Alive. Life. Here. Solid under his arm. Mine.

 

_She wants me to be with him._


	5. 004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for Sandalphon continues; Castiel ventures into enemy territory alone as proof of fealty, and Sam discovers unfortunate news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My editing program kinda messed with the format and styling. Hope it looks okay.

Castiel weighed the two objects he held as if weight alone was an indicator of quality – which would makes this decision infinitely easier and less... personal. Personal for whom? Personal in that it is his decision, what he likes best, or what he think the receiver would be happiest to gain? Either choice is exasperating. Maybe a mixture of both. I like this gift, you would like this gift, you accept it with a warm smile and use it at your leisure as it ceases to be my concern any longer. But the aesthetic taste between him and a Winchester could be measured in thousands of miles; finding the coveted middle ground could take awhile, beyond this store's closing hours.

 

Scanning the front and the back. Shaking them. Smelling them. Similar, nothing foul. Serving the same purpose. Nothing to set them apart. So why was this so troubling!

 

Back onto the shelf they went, Cas reconsidering this whole notion of giving to those you care for. Fortunately -or unfortunately- there were more to choose from.

 

Giant ventilation cooled an even greater sized store, much like a warehouse, stocked like one and probably with just as many accidents given the size of whatever those boxes contained resting on high ledges. Windowless walls embellished this effect. Amazing how any work could be executed in such a mechanical environment. Alone in the isle, to his left and right a customer or associate would pass by out of the corner of his eye with, Cas figured, a much better idea of what they planned to purchase. Should he ask one of them for input? Out of all the items on this rack, which one would fit the taste of people you've never met? People who kill things, kill themselves, fight over the television remote and mock their angel best friend whenever the opportunity presents itself?

 

The boys already have a similar item, but since it was never theirs to begin with, there was no comparison. The outside did not matter; the inside made it valuable. No, that's incorrect. The human element, something that could never be bought at a store or manufactured. History -who has possessed it, the lands it had traveled and events it bore witness to- increased the value of most anything, as does rarity. That is as rare as it gets.

 

Cas frowned. Maybe he was over his head. Not only would his gift have a lot to live up to, but what if they did not accept it, not because of its design but of its purpose? That was the greatest of his worries, especially where Dean was concerned. His good intention could be misinterpreted as something vulgar, imposing, to the elder brother. An emotional eruption caused by something so small – wouldn't be the first time. But due to a gift was something different all together.

 

A pop song with a chorus about the female singer opening her eyes and seeing a figurative or literal sign played dimly on the speakers. The rest of the lyrics were unintelligible. Cas wished the universe or God or some kind and benevolent being would give him a sign, a nudge in the right direction. A dismissive point to “somewhere over there” would suffice.

 

Because a gift for your family should mean something; a human family with hearts too big for the life they live, a thankless life, bloody and cold and cruel. You would never be able to buy them decorative items for the home, nor clothing as he knew nothing about current fashion or any fashion (but he was sure Sam's pant size was giraffe). The only endowment either of them would accept completely was something that resounded in them, that meant something on a personal level. Knowledge that could only be gained from fighting beside them, traveling with them or living with them. And this would, maybe too much.

 

But, with time, it would become valuable. They would resist using it at first, the concept they might find appalling. As the years pass and their years get shorter they would reflect back on it with a gleam in their eyes and...

 

Cas smiled in his resolution. That would be their gift.

 

Before that could happen: “This might be easier if there were less to choose from.” The dreadful wall needed to be dealt with.

 

There, in the left corner, something he had overlooked as it was contained in a white box while the rest were not. He reached for it, wishing in his mind he could open the packaging and feel it.  But the outside -the color, the size- it was... this had to be it. The price was a little higher than the rest. That's what the poker games were for; he prepared for such an exuberant total.

 

He saw the future of what he held, and it was a good one. Cas would make it that way.

 

* * *

 

 

The grass sagged underneath the weight of the dew, moisture left over from the rain that had fallen moments ago. An ashen gray sky contained the threat of even more to come. The damp combined with the chill in the air passed straight through these human bodies, filtrating unaffected like radiation rays. This kind of temperate climate would be found with ease on most continents on Earth, but not in Heaven.

 

 

Green leaves hung sapped of life from trees and did not sway; there was no wind to speak of. Everything here seemed to be tinted in monochrome, the vibrancy of a normal day lost behind layers of clouds that were frozen in time. While days such as this have occurred before, they have increased in frequency since their Father left. The bright blue skies, fluffy white clouds and the vegetation of Heaven so often portrayed in lore was not always so, and could be stimulated by outside forces similar to that on Earth. The weather itself was an organism, living and observing, changing when it saw fit.

 

It had a default setting, just like everything else. For a time, before the battle with Lucifer on the surface, and before more and more angels left and died at the hands of their own brothers' and sisters' blades, they existed in symbiosis. Stability, co-existence between the angels kept a calm; a normal. The default. Their temperament flowed without. The dividing, fracturing groups of angels, the loss of the archangels and God, and the rapid rate of the disenfranchised was reflected back at them. The normal was fading, Heaven becoming a hollow mockery of what it once was. Not all angels got along, but there was unity. What did they have now?

 

Three bodies stood still beside one another, two men sharing the same rigid posture and steel eyes, unreadable features, stared at a solitary woman, thick light hair hanging loosely on her shoulders and keeping her disgruntlement in check.

 

Shoftiel made light of the situation, hoping it made her seem like this outcome was to be expected. “It's becoming trendy for angels in power to abandon their posts without warning. Even more popular is their game of hide-and-seek,” she gritted through her teeth. “How convenient that both Metatron and Sandalphon should both choose obscurity. A shared trait between friends.” Was there a possibility that Sandalphon had found Metatron and, because of that camaraderie, initiated contact instead of informing other angels of the scribe's whereabouts? An insight, but nothing resembling a hint.

 

The two male angels remained silent, arms at their sides and always prepared to summon a blade, even in friendly territory. For search and retrieval missions there were no others she or anyone else would send, and in fact it was their job to do so, but personable conversations and friendly banter went unheard. No humor, no aggression, no anything other than in relation to their reason for being near you, regulated to “yes” or “no” answers and descriptive details that bordered on obsessive. Which was honest enough; it was within their code to be precise, to consider all things.

 

“Yes, well,” she hastily continued. “Have either of you garnered any ideas to where Sandalphon may be? Prior locations, gender, nationality of the residing body – is there any impact on Earth at all?” Because there is here, she looked to the overcast skies with somber eyes. Your purpose is too important to be absent for so long.

 

There was a brief pause between an answer as they mentally conferred with each other. Immense quantities of information passed between them in time unmeasurable. Two halves of one whole, inhabiting separate bodies but sharing one mind, one name. To be in two different places at the same time, to transfer memories instantaneously, stream their field of vision as events unfolded, made them invaluable to their kin in completing more covert operations and searches, much like now. But that's not going as hoped.

 

“It is a repeat of Metatron, as you said.” The taller of the two, an articulate voice too weak for the commanding tenor of a Quaddisin, though he pushed the limit of those vocal chords. “Given how secretive they were, it is possible this cloaking technique was shared between them.”

 

“They weren't necessarily secretive,” Shoftiel shook her head. “More like loners, really. Finding common ground in their seclusion. A friendship seemed...” Oh what did they care? Any input she had was superfluous. “Are you under the assumption they're traveling together?”

 

“With the lack of credible intel we've gathered, all that can be done is make assumptions. The angels gossip but have no proof. The demons that are not at war with the Goetia or Crowley are too invested in personal interests to notice. Between those two factions, Sandalphon's name has not been mentioned or inferred.” He stopped himself and sniffed. A signal of annoyance? Annoyed as either of these two can be. “We can assume that neither side has had contact and that it is not likely in the foreseeable future.”

 

It all made such little sense. “What other reason would Sandalphon have for leaving Heaven if not for the demon war? Why leave at all? The souls...” she said, soft as a whisper, looking up again. “They're lost, frightened. And their numbers will only increase as they remain in limbo. What is more important than they are?”

 

The smaller human spoke up, hazel eyes as chilled as the air. “Other humans.”

 

True, dealing with the souls of humans for thousands of years had made Sandalphon fond of them almost to the point of ignoring all other angels, becoming soft and sympathetic. They rallied and petitioned God that the position had been compromised, having one so compassionate towards humans endangered the future of Heaven and its order. For whatever reason, He let the angel continue. While not unanimously accepted, their Father knew what was best for his creations and the discussion ended. But He left them, as did much of the love and reverence they had for him, rendering decisions such as that reckless as time continued to open the wound further.

 

For Sandalphon to leave post to aid humans on Earth was logical - “But that does not explain why. What on the surface could be such a draw?”

 

“The effect the battle between the impostor king and the original demons will have on humans,” they answered in unison, while something they did with frequency was still never pleasant to hear. Their true voices seemed to come from without them and never of them, rapid rings radiating outward and vibrating through you. These voices? Well...

 

“It might be concerned, but why not proclaim your intentions to the enemy? Why hide?”

 

For this neither of them (the whole of them) had no answer or hint. Leaving the souls of humanity for humanity only to slink in the darkness like a predator. As much as Sandalphon had changed since becoming guardian of souls, and since loyalties became hazy, it would never leave for amusement or because it could. It was too wise for that, not to mention the passion it had for the task. The reason was concealed, but there was one. At this rate they may never know until Sandalphon decides the time is correct to lift the curtain and become visible. Hopefully it would not follow Metatron's example.

 

“With more casualties mounting between the demons, and the longer this goes on, the riskier it becomes for the mortals and the more likely Sandalphon will emerge.” That was it. That was her last attempt at reasoning. It was a thorn underfoot that the only solution was wait and see, an annoying shade of defeat, but it was all that could be done. With God unable to appoint a new guardian, it better return with haste. The skies will only darken from now on.

 

Another failure for the Quaddisin. Missing God, missing angels, eventually they stopped searching. But no more. They will not add another name to the wall, yet another mockery. Sandalphon would be found and returned. Keeping the renegade angel in Heaven and returning to the job... One task at a time.

 

They were gone. Not ones for goodbyes – or hellos. As long as they were effective, courtesy was an afterthought. Find Sandalphon or keep the damn humans from dying.

 

 

The clatter of a ceramic mug against the glass casing of the war room's blinking map of the world wasn't enough to snap Dean out of his haze as Sam placed the steaming coffee in front of him. Movement nor the strong scent filling the air drew his eyes away. Taking a seat once again across from Dean, he lifted his laptop's lid and spoke loud enough to fill the entire room. “You're welcome.”

 

Dean's head cocked down and blinked his eyes back into focus. Oh right. Sam. Drinks. Phone. Pretending that he had not been caught dozing off in class just then, he sat up a little straighter and grabbed the cup's handle. “Yeah, uh... thanks,” he mumbled before making quite the dramatic show of drinking, lifting it back like it was a shot of tequila.

 

“Feeling a little distracted?” he egged Dean on knowing without a doubt he was. His brother grunted a response and pointed to his face, can't talk, busy right now. Of course he wouldn't admit it, and of course Sam knew. “How's your throat?” He really was intrigued. How badly was this going to burn him? Would he be able to talk?

 

Ignoring him, Dean finally put down his drink and unlocked his phone. His eyes were glassy, his chest puffed out like he was holding his breath. The scene remained like this for a minute before the tiniest of coughs escaped his lungs. Pointing an accusing finger at Sam, he managed to sputter out “Don't you even think about laughing.” The young Winchester pursed his lips and swallowed down a cackle deciding he owed his brother this one little fret.

 

The sirens connecting to the war room rang throughout the bunker around noon. It took both men a moment to recognize that they were in fact coming from that room, never having heard them before. After coming out of their respective rooms and meeting on their way, they entered to a room of activity and movement, the opposite of the tomb it usually appeared to be. Panels blinking red with urgency, desk lamps and the audio reels surging to life as if they were sentient; the hum of electricity in the air. The room was often passed through and used, far less than the library, but never had it acted on its own. Being an older structure and having no modern updates and renovations since the 1950's, some would assume a faulty wire, a surge. Not here, not a building used by the Men of Letters. Such common and preventable problems could cost lives. Sub-par craftsmanship would not have been tolerated.

 

Dean flipped off the alarm switch as the flashing lights of the world map caught Sam's eye; he motioned his brother over. Several flickering white lights scattered across the continents, the volume of them contained within North America, the few others scattered throughout Europe. The dots totaled to six with two of them radiating not so far from where the bunker should be located, almost on top of one another, as Sam pointed out.

 

“Okay, so sirens never mean anything good, and one of those lights is a couple miles off from where we are. This is where I usually say let's roll out, but what in the hell are we looking for?” Dean asked Sam with a crease in his brow.

 

“Think it has anything to do with what Meg was talking about? Crowley and whatever is in the basement?”

 

“All that talking and she managed not to tell us a damn thing.” The attention to his words waned as several of the locations highlighted on the map resounded with familiarity in his mind. “So we're here,” he pointed, “give or take fifty miles. This spot right here? Where would you say this is?”

 

Moving in closer to Dean, Sam answered, “I'm not sure of the town, but that's South Carolina.”

 

Dean nodded slightly, still focused on the map. “Up here's Ohio, to the west, South Dakota.”

 

Sam wasn't positive with where Dean was heading with this. “Is there some connection?”

 

“I thought there was, but the hot spots near Paris and two being in the same state...” He could feel the weight of foreknowledge on his tongue. Something were there; he knew it. A string tying a seemingly random collection of spots on the globe. But did anything in his life just happen? Freak occurrences, an old friend in the same town as them, murders with nothing to connect them other than the days between them. Everything happens for a reason, by foe or by God. Chance was out of the question, though the “why” remained.

 

“With two being here in Kansas, we can both agree that it's got something to do with us. Well, when doesn't a catastrophe have nothing to do with us?” Sam meant that to be humorous but he only sounded weary. “Safe to say Crowley's involved in whatever's causing this.”

 

From what they could remember of Meg's unexpected visit, Crowley's followers ceased their tracking of Castiel after what they hoped he would lead them to had been found: the shimmering air, the “portal”, they had found downstairs, which were left behind as Roland and Jillian moved across the country doing nobody was exactly sure what, other than following the Winchesters. How Cas had found these locations was an unanswered question. The disappearances had ceased but the cause never retreated from the back of either Cas or Dean's mind. Was it really the same thing that caused Dean to hallucinate, as well as other monsters and demons? And why Cas alone?

 

What had caused Crowley's change in plans was the appearance of... Meg was  vague on purpose (of course). Something startled the king of Hell enough to abandon Meg's torture and regroup. With a list of enemies that matched the length of the Winchester's own, who- or whatever it was could be anything.

 

“This thing have a manual?” Dean asked as he felt the underside of the table. “You know what type of emergencies set her off?”

 

“Actually, there is a manual. Found it in my room a couple days after we made this our base. I know what you're going to say,” he caught the jackass smirk on Dean's face before he turned away to hide it, “but this is exactly why nerds read the directions.”

 

Dean dismissed him. “You like to rub my face in it... Doesn't change the fact you're still a nerd at the end of the day.”

 

“Spells work the exact same way! They're how-to guides for the uninitiated.”

 

“That's all part of the job, Sammy,” Dean said as if Sam should know better, exasperated and condescending. “You either know how to read a little bit of Latin or have your entrails used as festive holiday streamers in a demon's hideaway. Weirdos like you read for fun.”

 

It was fair to say that Sam knew Dean better than anyone else in this world did, and probably held more intimate knowledge of his brothers than what most brothers would share, from a family of hunters to the “normals.” Prone to keep most of his feelings to himself, on those rare chances he saw fit to open up or when reality was too much to bear, he never held back. In Dean's version of Pandora's Box, instead of all the world's evil escaping, his emotions exploded through, ravaging and tearing away at the vessel that contained them.

 

Sam knew Dean. The name-calling, while irritating at times, was never taken to heart. Of course Dean read – for fun. Not just Letters To Penthouse or articles of unexplained murders and suspicious attacks, but novels, historical non-fiction. Kurt Vonnogut was a personal hero. He saw himself in Holden Caulfield (though he was never able to articulate how so. Sam had his own theories). Sam could recall Dean at 12 tearing up while reading Where The Red Fern Grows and threatening to push him out of the car if Sam told another living soul. He never did. Why this depth of character embarrassed Dean so much was because of Dean's own lack of worth. Intelligent people read. Creative people. But at the same time the popular cliché was nobody read at all. So it was an affront on all sides: I read, but only losers read; I make myself more of an outcast by trying to fit in and parrot what regular folks say. He was so smart, bright enough to hurt your eyes. A part of him knew that. The majority, the normal, the status quo – they wanted nothing more than to kick his "vulnerabilities" into submission.

 

The globe panel reacted to drastic atmospheric changes as well as the use of powerful magics, magic being able to alter such things as the weather and the Earth's magnetic field. The scientific side to to hunting, as all hunters knew but gave much thought to; it just kind of... existed. The sulfuric stench of an exorcised demon, something as simple as salt and iron being an effective repellent, two intersecting lines, ordinary un-blessed sticks held out in front of you as astringent as mace. But they worked. As the Men of Letters of old would have told to anyone asking, there's more to a chant than just repeating words, and why that innocuous salt keeps the demons at bay. All superstitions have the modicum of truth within, as both hunter and Men could agree upon. One group desired to discover the why and the how while the other accepted the peculiar methods at face value and carried on, fist to faces, boots to asses.

 

Unfortunately there was no indicator, written or recorded, on what type of attack or its level of severity. “Once you get to the 'Fucked' level, there's nowhere else you can go," Dean said as he pulled out a chair and tried to straighten out his thoughts. Maybe they didn't have the technology they needed for something like that. Or maybe they didn't think it was necessary. Or they never had the chance to install it. “If this mess has something to do with Crowley, it's got something to do with us whether we want it to or not.”

 

“I know you're ready grab the keys and haul ass,” Sam interjected, seeing resoluteness set in Dean's jaw, “but you said it yourself. Whatever we're getting ourselves into is gonna be rough. Those two spots are close... You can't ride into them blind.”

 

“So we wait for it or them or whatever to come to us?”

 

Sam didn't want to stay passive, nor did he want to follow Dean into God knows what. The two of them needed a moment to consider their options and with some luck find a hint to what was happening right now. He didn't even know where Castiel was.

 

“He tells me when he leaves and that's about it. More than I got out of him before. Still a pain in the ass though.”

 

Now was probably a great time to send a prayer out to him, to call him back home and have optimal man- and angel-power for their next move. To do so without him, to hunt or make major, possibly life-threatening decisions, would not only injury his pride but earn Dean a couple smacks on the head. He was family; he shared his life with them as they did with him. It was only fair.

 

The prayer, spoken aloud, was brisk and to the point, his tone more befuddled than urgent. Sam had to wonder what Dean's private prayers sound like now compared to the past and public one such as this. He couldn't imagine anything romantic – nobody could change that part of Dean. But how he prayed, his tone, if he stalled and stuttered in his mind. How frequent. Hey, Cas, it's... me. Um, just wondering how you're, you're doing and, uh... What sort of devious pleasure did Cas get from the angelic version of a phone call? Considering just how dedicated Dean is to making their relationship work (aiming for a typical romance in an atypical life), he might have thought of them as sweet. As long as Dean kept his monologues to a minimum.

 

Only a few seconds passed before the angel appeared beside Sam, still wearing his suit and not entirely ready to retire it for the summer, which was almost over anyway. Dean noticed right away his abnormal stance, standing a little too close to Sam, facing Dean straight on but not meeting his gaze, with his hands behind his back. He didn't look guilty, but he was a bastion of suspicion. Whatever he had been doing he must had finished, perhaps preparing himself for the trip back home.

 

Sam followed Dean's eyes, Castiel's close proximity causing him to brush his nose against his suit jacket.

 

“You're... standing pretty close there, Cas.”

 

“You called?” he answered to Dean, not budging an inch.

 

The situation was summarized in curt manner with Cas agreeing about Crowley, and when asked once more if he could recall anything about the portals, even a general location, with the turn of his head Dean knew it was one question too many.  He held his breath to push down the rise of his voice. Nothing. He still knew nothing. No miraculous visions. His temper was not provoked from being asked the same question for weeks – it was his ignorance, frustration remaining from not having any recollection of his hours spent away.

 

Angel radio remained silent, Cas pointing out that, regarding Crowley, the angels would not involve themselves in enemy pursuits omitting them. “I'm sure you've both noticed over the years how self-serving angels are, myself included. The way I've come to believe it is they don't consider him a threat to Heaven as it is at the moment an imbroglio between different demon factions. I get a sense of satisfaction out of it myself, honestly.” When asked if there would ever come a time his brothers and sisters would intervene or become active in some way by Dean, he shook his head. “I can't say for sure. There may be a time in the future, but what is happening at this moment is not the catalyst.”

 

The broken speech Dean heard between sleep the morning he discovered Castiel in the basement thrummed in his head again. ...n't th ...wi...how d... s. Like someone playing with the volume on the radio, turning the knob from 5 to 0 with no regard to how much it irritated others. Again the voice was choppy, just barely able to discern that it was male; not even this man's age could be identified. The only voice that should be in Dean's head was his own, happening not once but twice. Trying not to draw attention to himself, he looked up through his eyelashes at Sam and Cas, and leaned forward onto the table to smooth the motion out. Nothing about either of their demeanor changed, confirming that he was the only one to hear the foggy voice.

 

The possibility of this correlating with the blinking nodes in front of him was beginning to remove itself from the realm of maybe to really fucking likely the more he debated on whether to tell them or not. Dealing with questionable abilities and trauma alone has never yielded any positive results in the past, so a part of him wanted to spill his guts: “Cas saw some strange stuff, I'm hearing some strange stuff, Crowley's a pain in the ass and I'd like to know just how the hell this all adds up.” The other half of him, the one expecting the worst, frigid and heavy in his chest, saw it as an omen. Whatever monster or spirit or thing that crawled with immunity in the back of his mind over the summer, one he was assured left as Jill and Roland did, never left at all. He fought for control with it and won, due in part to giving his absolute trust to Cas, but there was no proof it retreated. And everything would turn red, he'd tear Castiel apart and all he would say is “It's okay, Dean,” and why stop there? What about Sam? It would be easy to turn the knife on the only other person in the world who could hurt you so deeply.

 

That hand twitched. Dean clenched it and flexed before the spasm happened again. To a stranger he seemed to have played it smooth, just normal human movement. But Sam and Cas knew him better than anyone else alive. He was thinking about something, and that something he had no intention of making known. Questioning the man would lead them nowhere, so for now, without corroborating with each other, they let it go. For now.

 

The matter of what to do next hung in the air until Cas, staring intensely at the map, asked for Dean's phone. Dean shot a curious look to Sam before handing his cell phone with some pretense to the angel who only now presented his hands from behind his back. It clicked as he thumbed his way through the pages.

 

“You look very acquainted with my phone, Cas.”

 

“I am.”

 

Dean expected more but never heard it. “Don't you have your own?”

 

“Yes. But what I'm looking for is on yours.” Still looking with calculation at the screen, he sighed. “You told me you deleted those pictures weeks ago.”

 

Pictures... Cas had him delete so many photos Dean was not sure the ones that still remained. Well, if they were weeks old and not recent, they must be...

 

“You're not even gonna let me have those?” Cas's unblinking eyes was all the answer that was needed.

 

Sam asked warily. “Something freaky or is Cas camera shy?”

 

“Something like that.” Dean didn't sound hurt or annoyed, but it was somewhere in between. The pictures or, more importantly, their context, were insignificant. In a roundabout way, that's what gave them meaning to him. Castiel never offered an explanation about why he would rather not be photographed, but that was alright. Right now, at this moment of his life, he did not like it. It certainly wasn't going to stop Dean from sneaking some during the brief opportunities he could.

 

After finding what he was searching for, Cas passed the phone to Sam with no direction.

 

“Care to share with the class, Sammy?”

 

“Yeah, it's an article from about a week ago,” Sam tried to explain as he read. “Witness says a large fight broke out, like a major Sharks/Jets sort of thing. She calls the police to the scene and there's not a soul there; no trace of a fight at all.”

 

“Sure she got a Breathalyzer before the day was over. What's so special about this?”

 

Sam leaned forward to hand back his brother's property to him, and Dean began to skim through the print himself. The woman spotted the mysterious altercation not far from the coast of -what the website's header stated to be- South Carolina.

 

No coincidences. Forty-eight states this could have took place in and it happened to be in the one where the three of them met the kid and his mother. Their admirers from Universe X. “Thinking those two tore the world another asshole popping up here?”

 

“Where she encountered the demons is not so far from where I confronted Jillian and Roland,” Cas said promptly, “which narrows down the possible radius considerably. When I arrive I should be able to find it within a few minutes.”

 

Finally, something solid. A lead that they could see and was plausible. “Alright then. The sooner we head out–”

 

“Wait,” Sam interrupted, shaking his head. “Wouldn't it still be quicker and more convenient to search for the two we already have here in Kansas?”

 

Before Sam could list off the pros of staying within state limits, Cas said with the assurance of someone who had time to cogitate his choice of words. Because he had. Should a situation like this arise in the near future, he would grasp at the opportunity. “This is something I wish to do alone.”

 

“Cas– ”

 

“None of the reasons I have would satisfy you, Dean.”

 

“Try me. I'm all ears.” Jade eyes were set on Cas, all his thoughts and attention trained on him with laser intensity. Unsettle him, make him sweat a little. Castiel's decision to venture out on his own, possibly right into a god damn battle between demons, would not be easily won.

 

Cas did soften, but not in the way Dean was hoping for: he would explain himself. He didn't want to, of course, as Dean had his mind set on holding him in place by his tie like the stubborn child he could be, but that antagonizing look, say what you gotta say, made him bite the line dangling in front of him. Moving around the table he took a seat beside Dean, wanting to see him eye to eye. “I could come across demons in my search, I know that. I'll be outnumbered. But I'll still be outnumbered if the both of your are with me. If we were to become separated,” he acknowledge Sam with a glance, “a quick retreat would be impossible, with either of you dying before I could reach you.”

 

“What else?” Dean wasn't buying it. Wouldn't buy it. He was not going to loosen the reins with such little resistance.

 

“Maybe I'll remember something,” he said reflectively. “By being alone, recreating those circumstance which lead me to vanish for hours at a time, something might trigger a memory. And... I want you to believe that I'll come back.” Dean was the one to finally break eye contact, blinking and rolling his eyes to the side. “No matter how dangerous things seem to be, I can do field work by myself or removed from you and know that I would not risk myself like a fool for any reason at all, and come back to you.”

 

Discordance was not all together rare between Cas and Dean, not because of their respective pasts but it's just something all couples -and humans for that matter- go through. Some of those instances Sam perceived as personal. The foundation was never debauched or crude, nor did they speak in code trying to cover something up. It was intimate, words discussed at night before bed; in the privacy of their room, wherever that room happened to be that day. Whatever Cas had said held significant meaning to one or both of them, and Sam was not sure if he should have been there to hear it. He sat stiffly in his chair debating whether to excuse himself or not.

 

Their eyes locked and as the seconds passed by Dean grew grouchier as Cas's soft smile broadened. _They're doing it again. Speaking with their mouths closed._

 

“You underestimate me.” For the sake of Dean's pride, Castiel left it at that. He knew well enough his mate would catch the concealed meaning: “You yearn to guard me like Sam, all hours of the day every day. You can't.”

 

Dean, while steaming, agreed on the terms that Cas got his “reckless ass back here when shit gets sour.” He thanked Dean with his whole heart, knowing that for him to relinquish his hold of Cas' hand was a gigantic step forward in their relationship with the events of July still pristine in both of their minds. After standing up once again Castiel returned to Sam's side and stooped down to retrieve whatever he had placed behind him, trying all the while to act like this was not suspect. Which only made him all the more suspicious.

 

The rush of wings taking flight and the brothers were alone, exchanging dubious looks.

 

“Were you able to...?”

 

“No. But I wish I had.” Sam leaned over to look at the floor behind him in hope that Cas left something behind.

 

 

Cas uncovered a corrugated storage box that sat tucked away on the bottom shelf in the basement, forgotten but not gone. While not dusty, the contents had a musty smell; old photos and documents, the paperwork most likely containing details of the photos, none which concerned him right now. His gift, still wrapped in plastic, was placed on top of the pile, covered once again and moved undisturbed back into its former residence.

 

For another day.

 

 

His throat was burned raw. Cas. The small screen held in front of him blurred like lights viewed through a windshield covered in raindrops. His right hand itched, not the throbbing heat or pain he grew accustomed to. Something inside the skin that tickled against his palm and muscles. Cas. Like maggots wriggling and squirming, ready to devour him from the inside out. Dean had switched to using his left hand some time before so he could conceal the other, flexing it, rubbing against the top of his thigh and trying to make himself feel something other than discomfort. Cas, you asshole, trying to be independent.

 

Nothing much could be done while waiting for Cas to return other than to follow his lead and search the internet for similar articles within the radius of the portal locations. If they resembled anything of the deteriorating one in the basement, finding one even with a mile of working area would be challenging. Without already knowing the exact location, locating one at night would likely be impossible.  They may be elevated a few feet hundreds of feet in the air. Worse yet, the demons guarding them – if any remained alive at the time Dean reached them. But with Cas scouting what appeared to be an okay lead, all three of them would get a better idea of what to look for and how to better react to the known and any unknown threats.

 

With the lack of anything useful to study right now, theorizing felt like the only option. These portals might be in lower traffic areas, no one to witness and question Jill and Roland's breach into this world. Dean had to wonder if any of the multitude of universes out there were harmed in the same way, if the things they hunted had some not-so-great days like the ones here, himself and Cas included. What were the respective goals of the demons? What had them split up this time? And Sandalphon. Was... it going to become involved in the family feud? With the angels out of the loop as much as the humans were, Sandalphon could be dead already, which seemed more and more probable as the days passed.

 

A quick glance at the time indicated the last rays of light on the east coast were visible. Angel or not, being alone in an unfamiliar region without light went beyond risky. He'd be back soon. He'd be back, tell them what he saw, Sam and Dean would have leftover takeout for dinner (Dean forcing any broccoli he found on Cas), and start planning their next move. Dean knew in both his head and heart that Cas flying solo was good for him, to give him proper time to stretch out his wings and feel more like part of the team instead of in the sidekick role he routinely melted into, the brother dynamic being as much a part of him as his DNA leaving little room for outsiders.

 

And he knew, knew like his name, that he coveted Cas in the Sam way he did Sam, Cas graduating from friend to an extension of his own life; “There ain't no me if there ain't no you.” He saw this obsession for what it was, though his worries for Sam varied in specific points compared to his boyfriend. ( _Boyfriend... Doesn't settle right with me. Lover? That's even worse. How 'bout goofy angel guy?_ ) Since he was 6 years old Dean though he only had room in his heart for his brother – wanted that room only for one person. The less people you care for the less it will crush you when they leave, dead or alive. Not that he didn't try. Squeezing in a friend here, a lover there. He could count the exceptions on one hand; everyone else was gone.

 

So why Cas? After making an oath to himself to never share his bed again, he did so again with what he felt like was little convincing. With a man no less. Did he honestly believe that luck would be on his side for this one? He knew their fate. Dean reminded everyday of their futile time together, every time he looked or though about Castiel. Death was but a shot away, every minute passing borrowed time. But those minutes were a gift, and the oath to protect those moments were greater any he could deign to deny warmth and comfort.

 

Cas reappeared looking very much the same as he did when he exited to the relief of Sam, and to the greater relief of Dean: hair kept, no scratching or bruising on the face or hands, tie still askew. His aloof demeanor meant a quick retreat wasn't made. Maybe. Which made for plenty of questions.

 

He reported the findings of his solo investigation with distance, like his mind were being weighed down by something as equally disconcerting. It may have not been urgent but merely a pebble in his shoe. Cas spoke of coming across a chain-smoking demon whose swagger and gait eerily reminded him of Dean, “only shorter and lacking a soul.” This smaller not-Dean demon wasn't threatened by the sudden appearance of an angel, especially one as notable as himself, but amused that he would come here alone. Interference from the Winchesters was expected; some of the demons on “his side” were placing bets. The nameless demon said he was out of the pool a couple of days ago.

 

Blade tucked in his sleeve at the ready, Cas asked why he was acting so amicably. At this particular junction in South Carolina, since human intervention, the warring sides have been at a stalemate. Demons surrounded the portal for a radius of a quarter mile, waiting for the first gutsy moron to attempt to pass through. At that exact moment who could say how many sets of eyes were on Cas, hiding behind, within, the trees surrounding him. Factions did not matter whenever a Winchester or a friend of theirs interfered in a dispute; if Cas twitched the wrong way or said the wrong word a torrent of demons would be upon him, united in removing the threat (“distraction”). As it was, both of them settled on the radial line, the portal well out of sight and to their left. Castiel was eager to begin asking questions but knew better. Sometimes information didn't need to be forcefully extracted or demanded; demons are inclined to boredom and have loose lips.

 

“I suppose I know why you're here,” his Texas accent droned, certainly not as deep as Dean's. The offer of a cigarette was declined by Cas. “Good little bloodhound sniffin' about for clues. Just can't figure out what you hope to gain by risking your neck, pretty boy.”

 

A part of it was personal, the other part counterintelligence.

 

“Now that's just not gonna do.” The strike of another match lighting yet another cigarette. “This is between us. We don't want no help, nor do we want your boyfriend and his monstrosity of a brother comin' in here, stabbing and guns ablaze, trying to 'do what's right.'” He said this like he had been personally insulted.

 

But why? Why is this infighting so fundamentally between them and them only? If demons and angels have any similarities at all, it's their isolation involving internal matters. No outsiders. Humans play that game otherwise, praying or making crossroad deals to better serve them in their predicaments. Castiel could at one point relate to this, right? Born to serve the humans but in the end only resolving their own woes? Before he downgraded his status to paperboy for the mortals? Cas chose to internalize this part of their conversation. It was a personal insult and had no bearing on the interrogation. And...

 

Cas was informed with some arrogance that if he was ignorant of the cause of the pugilism between the demons that he didn't deserve to be told at all. “I'm not trying to give you the runaround; guys like you and me like to speak in code. But with what you already know about us, the answer should be sticking straight out like the hairs on your head.” For Cas to raise his voice to such insolence would be met by deaf ear, and to physically press the matter would encourage an attack from enemies he could not see.

 

You would not be here if you didn't choose a side to bear arms for.

 

“I represent the side that wants a change in regime.” And he left it at that. Another snuffed out butt added to the small mountain on the dirt, his eyes locked forward. Must have been a soldier of the opposing faction in the distance, seen only to him.

 

“The portals. Do you fight for control of them or to impede Crowley?”

 

He shrugged. “We all want control. All together very different endgames, but having a monopoly makes things a hell of a lot easier.”

 

The demon nearly stuttered when Cas walked away from him in the direction of the vortex, asking if he listened to anything he said earlier. Of course he did, but in the absence of answers something more drastic -and something Dean would not like- had to be done. He could feel eyes on him like a panther's as he made his way further into dangerous territory. The scuffing of shoes on the forest floor made him turn his head; the chain smoker trailed him at a innocuous distance. His curiosity overrode his better judgment, responding to Castiel's quizzical stare by casually admitting that he wanted to be there when the less affable demons tore his wings off.

 

Even from a distance Cas could see the difference between the portal in the bunker and the one before him. A perfect circle punched out in the air, an iridescent line the width of a strand of hair bordering it. The center, while opaque, appeared to undulate and ripple, rolling with the rhythm of an ocean's waves against the shore; Cas knew that the portal was one dimensional no matter what angle he viewed it from, the hypnotic motion being an optical illusion. This one was alive, moving, responsive – receptive. It took in the willing. Or the coerced. As the demons remained in a stand-off, Cas never did observe anyone passing through or returning from a trip. Using the trailing demon as a litmus test, what Cas was seeing (or not seeing) was what it must have been like since they were caught in the act of approach.

 

Only a handful of yards away, the voice behind him reminding Cas that the arrows were drawn. But so was he. Damp. His clothes were damp, not from a pouring rain but a mist; he could recall the moisture on his face. Gray, that exaggerated gray you would see in films because everything you see on screen is embellished. Sitting –no– leaning against something hard against the back of his thighs. What was in front of him was a blur he wasn't sure was from memory loss or if something really looked like that. Movement out of the corner of his eye. Of what? Did it matter? Of course it should. Not now, have to keep... what? Why am I here?

 

He took the tan coat off, only then discovering it wet. How did it get that way? Why did he not care? He removed it because it seemed natural, something he was supposed to do so his hands mechanically processed the reflex. Not because Dean was sleeping and wanted to be beside him. Loathing radiated from his body, glowing. Dean and I, we're sick. “...save yourself from hell.” He's diseased and he has no idea.

 

“I was startled back to consciousness when I felt a nudge against my back. The Dean-like demon” -Dean looking displeased- “must have noticed and tried to knock me out of it. That must be what it feels like to be woken from a deep sleep... I came back here the moment I became alert. I was perhaps three feet from it – I don't remember crossing that gap to get so close. Like I lost time again.”

 

Dean was relieved Cas had the sense to return to home base after the shock, but the unclear memory swirled bitterly in his head. “Think it's a spot you beamed up to before?”

 

“It's likely. I can't... see anything, so no progress at all has been made.” His disappointment was evident.

 

“That's not completely true,” Sam remonstrated. “Though it could have been a fluke, being around these things triggered something in your head to recall some details, no matter how fuzzy they are. Might get our foot in the door to explain how you were drawn to the defunct one downstairs.

 

“And it's solid proof that the lights represent the portals. Whether we were there first and Jill and Roland followed the lead or vice versa wasn't proven, but it's as good a lead as any.”

 

“'Course those demon jackasses are tight-lipped about why they're taking each other out. Glad you didn't press your luck with that, Cas,” Dean said sincerely.

 

“I'm glad you didn't persist in coming with me. Your interrogations are rather explosive and I may have had to bring you back home in several pieces.”

 

Of course Castiel was correct, but he still didn't like it.

 

Wouldn't Dean do the same? Didn't he do the same? Go into a dangerous situation solo because a loved one could be harmed? Denying help was nothing new. Denying any help at all... The difference here is that Cas is well suited and capable of doing the dirty work alone. Angel grace and a disappearing act for defense, he should go alone. But Dean would slow him down, a squishy human with a hair trigger temper and the numbers game stacked against him. He would have punched his demon clone a few times and brought the wrath of two groups of separate but very equal asshats upon him like brimstone, and no matter how quick Cas is, he's not quick enough to clean that mess up before Dean lost his head.

 

He had to grin. Where would he be without Sam and Cas to tether him to earth? Probably in several pieces. What kind of guardian was he, needing others to protect him from himself?

 

 

Another refill of coffee and the three men settled down to brainstorm about what was unraveling around them and the questions brought up by these events. Sam's stomach began to audibly grumble after not having eaten anything since mid-morning, but dinner wasn't the highest priority at the moment. The noise reminded Dean of when they were children... Too much so. The nights where they wouldn't eat, or Dean offering his own meal (if a spoonful of canned pasta or a gas station snack cakes could be called a meal) with Sam obliging after some protest, too ravenous to care that Dean suffered the pangs just as badly, or denying him entirely, enduring the pain with typical Winchester stoicism but still too young to mask it. You can't take the “baby” out of your baby brother, no matter how much time passes.

 

Two demon factions, one side fighting for Crowley while the other, recalling Meg's elastic inference, belonged to a group of angels that rebelled with Lucifer using the name Ars Goetia. At this point only hypothetical what-ifs could be made as to what would cause them to wage war and why they would choose the vortexes as battlegrounds. Being on good terms with the former ruler of Hell made the theory of regicide the most likely: They dislike how the new boss has been running things, found those like-minded and waved the banner of war. Did they happen to share Crowley's interest in the wormholes? Who discovered them first; rather, who was concerned with discovering them first? His draw to them was as limitless as the supposed myriad universes it contained.

 

Were Castiel's alien dreams prophetic? In a way, yes. In a broader sense, no. Ars Goetia resurfaced, but the unconscious vision failed to elaborate further. Was Sandalphon involved with what Cas saw? As unknown as its location. The renegade angel may have left Heaven due to the demons, the portals, or both. With only a name to go by, Castiel and the brothers did not want to rest all answers on Sandalphon, who may or may not decide to appear on stage before the fighting was through. As far as they were concerned, it was only a name, an idea. You can't exactly interrogate an idea, so best let that be.

 

Would you be able to distinguish an Ars Goetia demon from some regular Joe demon if we happened to cross one, Cas?

 

Their characteristics may be extravagant or embellished, like what happens in human fairy tales and myths. Angels have interacted with them before, we know this, but we too have a tendency to overreact when confronted with an enemy, and have rumors form as an amalgamation of fact. Your boogeyman has many faces; so do they. It's said they have lost all resemblance to their former life as angels, but I personally don't believe it. Lucifer is powerful... To render them completely unrecognizable I find implausible.

 

Put a check in the maybe box.

 

Should they summon Crowley, putting a temporary end to the guessing game and hand him their list of demands? Not yet – not right now. Better to hold back on becoming directly involved in the feud until it was necessary. Why face two mobs when you could only fight one? Who knows, maybe while they watch on the sidelines somebody would finally kill that son of a bitch. But for now the three would do that the Men before them had done: study, gather information. Calls to Charlie and Kevin would be made, one to scorer the internet for texts with any links to the fallen angels or whatever Jillian and Roland are, and the disturbances they left behind; the latter to process the tablet for anything of the same. Cas would investigate the library while Dean reluctantly opted for the basement, mumbling that for being men of Letters, they certainly had a crappy way of indexing data, “making us research for days.” But before that could be done he would need a cold beer and a sandwich, take-out broccoli would have to wait, him hoping that Cas did not spoon the last of the peanut butter out of the jar.

 

“...It was honey-roasted.”

 

“You can't even taste it!”

 

As Dean argued with more passion than a man should about angels normally having the moral standing to tell a host he or she ate the remains of their food: “Shit.”

 

Dean cut himself off as both he and Cas turned to look at Sam.

 

“Find something?” Cas was the one to ask, Dean still holding a conversation in his head.

 

“Yeah,” he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Turning the laptop's screen to them, they saw a familiar face with the caption underneath: “Roland Hale (pictured), recently returned with his mother to their home in South Clintonville after missing for five weeks, is missing once again.”

 


End file.
